Snakes in the Grass
by She Side Walks
Summary: Drawn into a trap, Jedi Knight Obi-wan Kenobi and Duchess Satine become prisoners of the wretched Sith Lord Darth Maul as he presides ruthlessly over Mandalore. However, instead of killing the star-crossed lovers, the Sith has worse things in store. What will Satine and Obi-wan do in order to survive Maul's wrath? Takes place during the episode "The Lawless." OBI-TINE! Dark fic.
1. Brothers

"Brother?" came the grumbling whisper.

The cavern was filled to the brim with rusting machinery, piles of garbage. A savage light threw menacing shadows that seemed to fight against one another as the bonfire swayed violently.

A massive figure skulked carefully around the corners of stacked debris, listening attentively for the gentle sounds of clicks, the unnerving whispers that echoed all around him. His voice caught in his throat as he attempted to call out again, it felt as if any sound would ignite the world.

Nevertheless, Savage Opress was not one to be cowed. Born of darker things with even bleaker intentions, there was a part of him, a growing one at that, which welcomed the aura of irate suffering. In some ways, he felt right at home here in the void of the universe.

The maze of filth went on forever, but he noticed an opening ahead. The skeletal rubbish parted to give way to a pocket of open space. This is where the light was coming from, as well as the maddening voice. The closer he got, the more anticipation ate at the corners of his mind.

Fondling the amulet Mother Talzin had given him (which was now bright green), he took a hulking breath and shoved past the final wall of garbage and entered the space. What greeted him was partially expected but nonetheless disturbing.

Half-Dathomirian, half-spider, all insane. This creature tore away at his own black and red flesh, his eyes blazed with an unbridled rage, but it could never focus on anything in particular. Pockets of lunacy appeared every few seconds but were overwhelmed immediately by ghosts in the mind. It never noticed Savage's presence.

"No, no, no, no, no…" it would whimper, its horned head would cock and swerve, seeing nothing but never ceasing.

The metal spider-belly, swollen and decrepit, attached precariously up into the chest of Darth Maul, allowing him to walk, yet it limped and snapped under his movements. Savage noticed a hodgepodge of materials used to create this monstrosity, as if someone had tried to keep it together with anything he or she could find—rusted steel and iron rods served as a poor skeleton with junk as the muscle. Pieces of paper routinely fell out, trampled under the crippled legs.

Maul flinched his way around the area, continually going in and out of frightening rage, then descending into incoherent sobs.

Savage could hardly believe his eyes. His brother, flesh and blood, reduced to this. Anger exploded in his body.

 _Whoever did this shall pay with his life._ He vowed, clenching his fist.

As hate rushed over Savage, Maul suddenly went still and quiet. He whisked around with surprising calmness and looked his brother straight in the eye.

"H-h-help-p-p…m-me-e…"he choked out, fighting his bleeding mouth as it spasmed.

Then, he gave a throaty shriek and collapsed. The amulet's light faded.

 _Jump forward to Darth Maul's takeover of Mandalore_

"He will betray us, brother," Savage growled, his eyes in slits.

The mangy tent ruffled with a cool breeze as the two brothers stood with arms crossed. Savage continually looked over his shoulder, as if expecting a Death Watch assassin at any moment. His grip on his lightsaber never loosened.

Maul lifted a hand to his chin, and furrowed his brow.

"Yes, he'd be a fool not to," he replied, his mouth curled in a sharp-toothed sneer. "We've given him everything he needs to take Mandalore, he will think us disposable after he usurps the Duchess."

This further provoked Savage, who almost roared with indignation.

"Then we should strike while we have the chance!" his massive fingers twitched, his broad shoulders shook.

Maul gave his brother a cool look, and Savage immediately settled, huffing, but not easing.

"Patience, apprentice, patience," Maul practically cooed. "Vizsla will not succeed, I will make sure of it, but for the moment we must play along. Then, when he thinks he's won, we end him."

Savage chortled, his deep laugh shaking the ground.

Maul responded with a tight grimace, his sharp eyes shifting, always watching.

The two now only had to wait, something which Maul had perfected while he rotted in the hole Obi-wan sent him to. Endless black nights, searing pain, inescapable, trapped beneath the universe, it had nearly killed him. And he had begged for death countless times.

But now it was going to finally be worth it.


	2. Anxiety

"Shoot to kill! Shoot to kill, you idiots!" Grievous shouted.

The Separatist general snarled in rage as yet another one of his droid soldiers collapsed, his own bullet lodged in his skull.

"Move out of the way!"

Grievous whisked his cloak off and his other two robotic arms sprung out, lightsabers in each of his four hands. Quickly, he tore a path toward the Jedi pair, taking out droid and clone alike without remorse. Screams echoed against the canyon walls.

Obi-wan's lightsaber was almost within reach when Grievous was slammed backward by an invisible hand, he skidded wildly. Anakin Skywalker's fingers were stretched straight out, his face a mask of concentrated fury.

"Do you always hide behind your puppy, Kenobi?" Grievous spat.

At this Anakin's feet twitched forward and he lowered his lightsaber. That was all the droid needed to fire a blast, hitting the clone who stood behind the Jedi in the neck. Immediately Anakin lifted the unlucky robot into the air with the force and crushed him, snapping him in two and throwing his mangled body at another group of clankers.

"Anakin! Do not lose yourself!" Obi-wan warned as he fended off a batch of incoming blasts.

Grievous laughed.

"Down dog!"

No longer able to control himself, the young Jedi rushed forward, taking down several droids as he went. Grievous met him with equal enthusiasm and the two began a deadly dance.

"Why is it that I am always left with brunt of the work…"Obi-wan muttered, centering himself in front of his battalion, covering the hole Anakin had made.

Their mission had been to discover and nullify the lucrative weapon trade on Tatooine. Separatists had a practical monopoly on it and had begun to greatly out-gun their opponents, whose armaments were depleting rapidly.

Yet, where Obi-wan went Grievous always seemed to follow, determined to add the Jedi knight's pelt to his wall.

The Jedis had managed to strike a new deal with the arms traders, promising higher interests and new business opportunities with a variety of Republic markets. It had seemed almost too easy. On the way back to the ships, Grievous had ambushed, pushing the Republic troops into a desolate ravine, hoping to flank and surround them.

Yet the flank had failed—Grievous had mistakenly tried to use tanks, which could not maneuver well on the rocky, sand-ridden terrain. Now he pushed all of his forces upon the front, hoping to overrun the weakening Republic troops as the canyon walls grew narrower and narrower.

Of course Obi-wan knew the intention of his nemesis and, unfortunately, he did not know how to escape it. They did not have the men or means to mount a successful assault, cutting a way through the Separatists. Anakin had foolishly abandoned his defense for a risky one-on-one with Grievous.

"Rex!" Obi-wan shouted, not taking his eyes off the barrage of red shots that threatened to annihilate them.

The grizzled trooper was at his side immediately, his two guns firing expertly—several droids crumpled, a singed circle in the middle of their heads.

"Sir!" he responded, his mask muffling his ragged breath. "How do you suppose we get out of this mess?"

Obi-wan had noticed a few cliffs hanging precariously above them in their retreat, giving him an idea.

"How close are we to the end of this ravine?" he asked.

"Not too far I think, but there's a problem," he grunted, blasting another droid in the chest. "The canyon diverges in two, and one or both of the paths might lead to a dead-end."

"That is troubling, but I think I have a plan that can buy us some time to figure a way out regardless."

"I'm all ears, sir."

Obi-wan smiled.

"Get the rocket launchers."

Without a word, Rex sprinted off.

Obi-wan resumed his task of blocking shots, but his mind began to cloud with concern. Anakin was still out there. His lightsaber glittered in the distance from time to time, followed by loud battle cries and grunts. It seemed to be an intense battle.

One that Obi-wan was not sure his friend could win alone.

Especially now that cover fire was getting further away, soon Anakin would be surrounded and captured, or worse.

The clones would be decimated if Obi-wan left his position to help, but he also knew that he had to inform Anakin of his plan before he was beyond his reach.

He heard Rex's steps come up behind him.

"Got the launchers, sir!"

"Good, how many shots are left?"

"Three, general."

 _Finally some luck,_ he thought.

"Alright, do you see that bit of cliff up there?"

Rex grunted a confirmation.

"On my signal fire at it," he commanded. "But, Rex you only have one shot, we cannot waste anything."

Rex kneeled and heaved the launcher on his shoulder, cocking his head.

Obi-wan took a deep, dusty breath and centered himself. His mind began to clear with new purpose as he sharpened his senses. Leaning forward, he bent his knees and shifted his weight, almost crouching while still parrying with his saber, not missing a shot.

"Now!" he shouted.

Before the boom of the launcher could sound, the Jedi knight shot off. His feet were a blur, his saber a death warrant. Although chaos ensued, his senses saw everything in twenty-twenty. The universe had its own sense, its own soul, which it infused in everything. The air was crisp, the rocks were lumbering, heartbeats drummed all around him.

The ground shook, Rex had hit his target. The confusion of battle was disrupted, the ebb and flow halted.

The expected hesitation was what Obi-wan relied on.

Sweat sprouted upon his brow, but he knew he was close. Anakin's mounting anger was easily identified. He whisked through a cloud of smoke, and entered onto the dueling scene.

It was clear Anakin was losing, but Greivous was not clean either. The two had paused to watch the avalanche of rock cascade when Obi-wan bounded in and quickly sliced Greivous's legs and threw him backward with the force.

Blood was trickling out of Anakin's mouth, his face and body were covered in dirt.

"Let's go, Anakin," Obi-wan declared, lending a hand. "Fight another day."

Although it was obvious he wanted to finish the Jedi-murderer off, Anakin did not delay in accepting the help and followed Obi-wan back to the front.

The rocks were colliding with the ground, crushing all who unluckily stood under them. The Jedi, however, flowed seamlessly through, avoiding each pebble deftly, dancing around destruction. Before the last boulder fell, the two were back amongst allies.

"Rex!" Obi-wan yelled as he ran. "Hit it again and let's move out!"

The missile squealed out and more rocks tumbled with a thunderous explosion.

"Are you trying to box us in?" Anakin barked, breathing heavy and holding his side. "We're sitting ducks!"

"I'm _trying_ to buy us time," his former master responded, stroking his beard. "If we can get to the end of this canyon quickly, we can outrun Grievous and leave him in the dust."

"What if we can't get out?"

"That's just a risk we'll have to take."

Anakin nodded resolutely, and jogged forward, trying to mask his pain.

Obi-wan sighed, and motioned for a chuckling Rex to follow.

"C'mon, let's make sure there's someone there to catch him when he falls."

* * *

"You have been most cooperative."

Maul grinned malevolently at the former Duchess, who glared right back at him through the ray-shielded prison wall.

The two locked gazes for a time before Savage coughed uncomfortably.

"Almec, brother."

"Yes, yes, I know," Maul snapped, tearing his eyes away from the feisty, yet imprisoned woman.

Savage dragged the disgraced prime minister by the scruff of his worn shirt, and Maul turned his back to Satine; however, before he went on with his plans, he looked over his shoulder at her, his unnerving smile growing again on his face.

"Until we meet again, Duchess."

The three of them walked away, leaving Satine, who stared after them, feeling as if a hornet's nest had burst in her chest.

* * *

"Satine…" Obi-wan whispered, his head lowering in pain while the hologram buzzed in front of him.

Her look of determination did not fool him, he saw the terror that sparkled in her eyes. Hair unkempt, clothes tattered, she had fought bravely for just a chance to call for help. But his masters were hesitant, if not outright opposed, to get involved. They _knew_ how much he cared for her—even _he_ could not deny his feelings. Detachment never seemed possible when Satine was involved.

Perhaps Anakin's methods were not so foolhardy after all.

They were lucky, managing to scramble out of the canyon before the Separatists could catch up. All had seemed tranquil, peaceful on the way back to the cruiser. Then that bubble popped when Obi-wan saw her panicked face, calling for his help.

If only he had gotten back sooner! Hours went by and he had had no idea! Grievous had cost him precious time.

A bundle of repressed emotion bloomed inside him: Fear, anger, guilt, and of course an overwhelming desire to save her. He lifted his crestfallen head, and stood stock straight, clenching his fist until his knuckles hurt.

"That is not the Jedi way, master," Anakin whispered in his ear, smirking.

 _Too keen for his own good…_ Obi-wan grumbled in his mind.

His former pupil sensed his curmudgeonly attitude and laughed again, although it did not reach his eyes. Obi-wan supposed he was simply trying to lighten his mood. Only seeing Satine safe once again would accomplish that, however.

"We cannot get involved in a neutral system," Mace Windu ordered, his dark eyes piercing Kenobi. "You know this."

 _Was it that obvious?_ Obi-wan wondered.

Calmness began to creep back in, a new plan in mind. Obi relaxed and looked coolly back at the Jedi master.

"Of course," he practically drawled, a smile playing on his face. "Just as you said, it is an internal matter. There's no doubt that the Duchess will figure it out in due time. Now, shall we discuss more pressing things?"

Even Anakin flinched, surprised by his friend's oddly collected presence. The young Jedi was not the only one capable of hiding his feelings well.

Windu continued to stare, trying to sense Obi-wan's true emotions, but the knight blocked him at every turn, numbing his entire body.

Nothing but vacant detachment greeted the scowling master.

 _That is what a Jedi does best, right?_ He challenged in his mind.

Obi-wan's smile enlarged, he radiated confidence, completely composed. Finally, Windu relinquished his probing and switched the hologram from Satine's crouched body to some distant planet where yet another battle would eventually take place, business as usual.

Obi-wan barely listened, nodding at the appropriate moments, making trite remarks when he had to. Yet, his mind did not wander; it was as sharp as it had been on the battlefield. Windu would sense if Obi-wan let his concern for Satine overrun his body, so he simply floated, became a void. It wasn't totally believable, but he only had to convince the councilman for a short time.

Then, he could let himself go, free his building emotion. The meeting seemed to last a lifetime. Anticipation rose and fell, and Kenobi prayed that the others would only correlate it with an eagerness for the next battle, the next mission.

It finally ended, the room went dark. Obi-wan turned and walked right out, leaving them all behind without a word. Anakin looked on, not fooled—he easily caught up to him.

"You shouldn't go tonight," he said quietly as he came up beside Obi, smiling benignly as if they were only discussing the weather. "They'll expect it."

Obi-wan sped up his pace.

"I'm not leaving tonight," he confirmed, not bothering to mask his plan. "I'm leaving right now."

Anakin nodded sagely.

"Take my ship," he offered, a more genuine grin stretching. "Destroy it and I'll never forgive you."

Obi-wan simply huffed thanks and continued his quick stride down the hall. Every step was agony, just like last time Satine was in trouble. Just like every time.

When they were at the entryway to the landing docks, Anakin placed a gentle hand on Obi-wan's shoulder, halting him for a moment. The knight oozed anxiety—he almost swatted his former Padawan away.

"Don't lose yourself, my friend."

Obi-wan simply nodded again, his tongue swollen, his throat dry.

"You cannot underestimate Death Watch. There are more sinister things lurking behind this whole thing then what meets the eye," Anakin warned again, eyes full of concern and equal determination.

Obi-wan could not stay still any longer and he shook his friend off and stormed toward the ships sitting on the bay.

"Now I know where I get it…" Anakin muttered, staring at the resolute back of Kenobi.


	3. Bait

Pre Vizsla sat upon his throne, lording over his new power. His group of followers surrounded him, informing him of all the latest dealings. One of which was concerning-that of Maul and Savage's escape.

"How did this happen?" he demanded, skewering an officer with his pale eyes.

The young man trembled but tried to keep his voice calm.

"It seems they shattered the walls from the inside...with the force. The sentries that were on watch are dead."

Vizsla curled a lip. How he detested the force. It was simply a cop-out for the weak. Real soldiers fought with minds and fists, not supernatural witchcraft.

"There's more sir," continued the soldier. "Almec escaped with them."

Vizsla's eyes widened but he nodded, his brow furrowing.

"What of the Duchess?"

"She remains."

Moonlight pooled in from the stained glass windows, the image of Duchess Satine still imprinted upon them, coloring the floor.

"What is he up to?" the captain of Death Watch pondered. "He can't possibly believe he can take back Mandalore with that traitor."

Almost as if on cue, the doors to the throne room slammed open. A guard flew through the air above their heads and was thrown cruelly against the back wall. A choked scream announced the presence of Maul who, with one hand lifted in a claw, strode calmly toward Vizsla.

Savage backed him, arms crossed, fingers inching toward a lightsaber that should have hung on his belt. Those who stood around Vizsla went into action, guns already pointed at Maul's head. The unlucky sentry who still struggled for life behind them soared back to Maul, serving as his shield.

"This doesn't have to be messy, Vizsla," Maul stated, his wispy voice barely audible.

"Guards, kill him!" Pre shouted.

However, whenever a gun tried to find an opening, Maul swerved his bodyguard precisely, blocking all attempts.

"Why don't we settle this man to man?" the Sith enticed, his wolf grin intact. "In the Mandalorian tradition no less."

The soldiers lowered their weapons and looked toward their leader. Vizsla simply laughed, but his eyes betrayed his worry.

"You may know of our culture, but you do not know me, monster," he chuckled, trying to exude confidence. "Sith are so predictable."

Maul's face contorted in anger for a moment, but he admonished and threw the human shield away. The snap of a neck rung like a bell.

Vizsla remained unfazed as he leapt off the throne.

"Bo-Katan, my sword please," he ordered, holding his hand out.

No answering feet sounded. Vizsla whirled around in disbelief, she was always by his side.

"Oh, is that the whelp's name?" Maul questioned, eyes bright with an advantage. "Such a pity. Such a pretty face."

The body of the unknown guard sprawled against the western glass, haloed. Maul levitated the helmet of it, revealing the young Death Watch lieutenant. Her red hair hid her dead-eyed gaze, but her grotesquely bent neck revealed her ultimate fate.

"No, I don't believe it..."Vizsla whispered.

Maul wasted no time in twisting the knife.

"Don't let your pets off their leashes."

Pre flinched and almost charged savagely from the throne steps, but he managed to catch himself. His face was a battle between honor and revenge. Back hunched, fists clenched, he kept his peace, not allowing Maul to goad him into rash action. The Sith strode forward.

"Since I am an honorable man, I will allow you your sword," he exclaimed, coaxing the saber handle from the dead girl's belt to himself as he walked.

When he was feet away, Maul extended the darksaber, to which Vizsla unhitched Maul's own weapon and they exchanged. The Death Watch soldiers backed away, bound by tradition.

Immediately, Vizsla triggered his weapon and the two clashed swords, their faces inches apart. Maul sensed the man's weakening resolve, the death of his trusted right-hand had dealt more of a blow than even he anticipated.

The Death Watch soldiers looked somberly on as the blades collided again and again. Neither opponent had managed to land a shot yet, but it was clear that Maul was only playing with his food. Vizsla breathed hard, both hands on the hilt, using all his strength.; however, the Sith only had a loose, one-handed grip on his own saber and parried all of Vizsla's blows with ease.

It was clear that the Death Watch leader was not in his right mind. He did not feint or try another scheme, he only foolishly tried to overpower Maul, a grave mistake.

"Why don't you fight back, you coward?!" Vizsla hissed, grunting.

Maul simply looked him in the eye, and continued to remain on the defensive. Savage had an unnerving smile upon his face, understanding his brother's intentions.

"Did you love her?" the Dathomirian pondered quietly, not breaking eye contact.

At this, Vizsla sped up his swings and tried to kick Maul's footing out from under him. He tried to cheap-shot him, blind him, anything to change the pace of the fight. All to no avail.

"I'll take that as a resounding yes..."

Vizsla backed off with a yell.

Sweat poured off the man in rivers, the scar on his left cheek undulated as his mouth gaped open, trying to suck air in.

"Do not be afraid, Vizsla," Maul soothed sarcastically. "I will reunite you."

Vizsla's face paled but he wasted no time in charging forward, determined not to lose.

The Sith had had enough of games, however, and sent Vizsla flying with a touch of force onto the throne steps. A sickening crack indicated that he had split the back of his head open.

Incapacitated, he was almost unconscious. Black edged his vision, but he heard the terrifyingly calm steps of Maul come closer, they stopped close to his ear.

The Sith stomped on the dying man's chest, holding him down like an animal. He reached down and unloosed Vizsla's grip on his darksaber. Maul raised the glowing black weapon above his head, signifying the change in rulership.

As Vizsla recognized his inevitable demise, he managed to whisper:

"Only the strong should survive..."

The sword came down, loping the head clean off. It rolled down the whitened marble steps, leaving a crimson trail.

Maul paid no attention and steadily stepped over the limp, tattered body. He sat neatly upon the throne, his furious, bloodshot eyes staring down the remaining soldiers.

"Well?" he questioned.

The helmeted men looked up from the corpse of Vizsla, their faces unreadable under the white and blue masks. Maul continued to glare, two sabers in each hand, which were still unsheathed, red and black. Finally, one of the men stepped forward and bent a knee, lowering his head in submission to the Sith.

The others soon followed, although some were more enthusiastic than others. Maul would have to cauterize any previous loyalty.

"Almec," Maul summoned.

The elder statesman scampered over, coming out of hiding behind the massive frame of Savage.

"Yes, my lord?" he squeaked.

Maul turned his penetrating gaze to Almec, seeming to stare straight into his soul.

"I give you Mandalore."


	4. Agony

The landing was rough, with oil leaking out and bits of metal plating falling off, but he got to Mandalore in one piece. A Death Watch sentry, now clad in black and red armor with makeshift spikes on the helm, approached Obi-wan, who was dressed in tarnished bounty-hunter attire, a wretched bronzed helmet hiding his face. Ugly brown stains seemed to mar every inch of it. The Jedi held out a hand in greeting.

"Sorry about the mess," he apologized. "Do you think I can stay for a while to make repairs?"

The serious guard, cradling a blaster, came right up to Obi, their chests only a few feet apart.

"Do you have a landing permit?" he growled.

Noticing the man's belligerence, Obi-wan held up his hands peacefully, trying not to cause a scene.

"Of course, would you follow me to the ship?" he asked, motioning. "I think I have it somewhere."

Nodding, the sentry sauntered after, gun held tightly in his arms.

Before he stepped onto the main hovel, Obi-wan landed a quick jab to the weak-point on the back of the neck, and the guard collapsed. Catching him before he could alert anyone to anything, the knight dragged him into the cockpit, laying him against the chair. He stripped him quickly and exchanged his clothes for the pristine Death Watch uniform.

With a wave of his fingers, he forced the man into a deeper unconsciousness, starting the clock. He would have a good half-day to find and rescue Satine before the alarm sounded.

Shoving his new, horned helmet on and attaching his saber to the belt, he exited the creaky ship, silently cursing Anakin for its decrepit state.

He sprinted off toward the palace, unaware that the trap had been sprung.

* * *

Maul's bloodshot eyes snapped open.

Meditating in his dark room, the knew the presence of Kenobi was close. The plan was going perfectly. Soon he would not just have his criminal empire but the Jedi subjected to a lifetime of humiliation and torture.

Grinning, he barked out:

"Apprentice!"

Savage lumbered past the opening panels.

"Get the former Duchess to the throne room immediately," he snapped, eyes burning. "And assemble a squadron. Hurry!"

* * *

It was so empty.

The streets were deserted aside from the occasional Death Watch patrol. Scraps of trash floated disturbingly in the air. It looked as if the city that used to be so vibrant had died. Terror was palpable. Obi-wan sensed that great carnage had taken place recently. Faint smoke trails still rose up from the buildings.

The sky was painted red with blighted orange streaks, which Kenobi supposed to be clouds. He thought he sensed eyes watching him as he wandered, but he couldn't pin point them. He whirled back and forth, trying to catch a ghost. There was a familiar presence here, one that spoke of terrible danger and pain.

A scream echoed. He ignited his saber without thinking. Yet there was nothing. Lowering his weapon, he squinted into the dark corners, down the alleyways, searching for a sign.

There was only the wail of the wind.

Although with the appearance of a menacing Pre Vizsla soldier, his staggering, bewildered demeanor betrayed him easily. An unseen spy on the rooftop clicked his communicator on.

Obi-wan was closing in on the palace, just a few more blocks he guessed. He sheathed his saber and re-attached it to his belt, but did not loosen his grip.

Several things happened simultaneously:

The shot of a blast rang out and the Jedi whisked around, still on edge. A maniacal cackle sounded behind him. Then a sharp pain exploded in his shoulder, downing him. His lightsaber went flying out of his hand. An unnatural smoke hissed out of nowhere and blinded him from his attackers. With only instinct to guide him he closed his eyes, and delved deep into the Force.

Footsteps sounded, another gunshot yelped out of its barrel, aiming right for him. Expertly, he dodged it, noticing the heat that whispered past his ear.

After the miss, a barrage of other missiles rained down upon him.

Just as the first time, he managed to elude them all, twirling and dancing with eyes still closed. Nevertheless, the waves of artillery did not cease, and he could not find an opening in which to slide out of range or retrieve his weapon. It took all his focus to avoid the blasts. He did not perceive the entrance of a new player to the game.

Too late, Obi-wan recognized the shadow of Maul permeate throughout the Force. His eyes shot open, and he lost his concentration. Two shots took his legs out from under him and then the air went silent yet again.

As his vision blackened, he saw the demonic façade of Maul fill his sight. The same look of fury upon his intricately designed face as the last time they had met. With bone-colored horns that sprouted out of his crimson head, and black streaks that ran from the tip of his skull down to his chin in random stripes, he looked more devil than mortal.

As this inhuman creature approached, Obi-wan tried to push himself up by the elbows, tried to scramble away. The Sith humored him for a moment but then gave a swift kick to his jaw, knocking him almost unconscious.

Obi-wan rolled in pain, his honey-colored beard stained with blood. Maul looked on, enjoying the sight of the Jedi squirm, but two of his men interrupted him.

He motioned to them and they immediately picked Obi-wan up by the arms, dragging him behind Maul like a hunter bringing back his catch.

It was excruciating. Flecks of dirt and broken glass jumped in and out of his wounds as they marched down the street. The usually buoyant man was rendered quiet by the agony. It wouldn't be much longer until he finally collapsed into unconsciousness, of this he was sure.

Maul had half a heart to keep him awake for their trip to the palace, but he figured the best pain was yet to come, so he let the poor thing drift. It would be the only peace or mercy he would receive for the rest of his life.


	5. Deal

**A/N: Let me know what you think of it so far!**

"Wake up, little Jedi..."

A cruel voice echoed in his ears, but he could not emerge from the drowning darkness. He struggled against the current of his mind, feeling as though at any moment he would suffocate and be lost at the bottom of the ocean floor.

"I said, wake up."

He felt himself be pulled up in spite of himself. Sputtering, he opened his heavy-lidded eyes. While unconscious, he had remained blissfully unaware of the pain that awaited him upon his return to wakefulness.

The first thing he felt was his legs spasm, his shoulder and back convulsed in anguish. Any other person would have succumb to shock; however, even in the throes of suffering, he remembered his training, biting his cheek until he tasted rusted, salty blood, trying to keep himself awake.

All was a blur at first, only blobs of color swirling in and out of sight. He thought he could feel a glitter of light caress his left cheek. Wheezing through his nose, he took staggering breaths, in and out, for what seemed like hours. Feet might have been shuffling around him, but he took no notice.

Finally, he noticed the hitch in his throat begin to lessen and he coughed up a mouthful of blood, rolling onto his side. His vision and mind were clearing, but he knew that any attempt to push himself up would result in a discomforting retch.

Cold sweat made the hairs on his neck stand up, his eyes twirled around, trying to find his captor in semi-blindness. He recognized Maul's patronizing voice immediately, and contorted his face in attempt to find him. Of course he was sitting on a throne, just in front of the Jedi, facing him.

One of his legs was thrown idly up as he lounged lavishly, an arm propped up, looking as if he was holding something, but nothing seemed to be in his hand. Kenobi chucked it up to his poor sight, although there was something unsettling about the picture, he couldn't put a finger on what it was.

"Ah, look who's here," Maul said, looking to the left as he spoke.

A gurgled grunt retorted.

It was then that Obi-wan understood.

The Sith was strangling a poor victim, just to infuriate him, just to show him that there was nothing the Jedi could do to stop it. Obi-wan tried to push off the ground, but his head exploded, his ears ringing and vision swaying uneasily again.

A loud _tsk-tsk_ clicked off the tongue of Maul, who waggled his gloved finger back and forth.

"I wouldn't get up if I were you."

Closing his eyes to stop the rocking of his brain, Obi-wan laid on his back, but gave a weak smile.

"I see your cowardice remains intact, Maul," he replied throatily, giving a subtle cough. "Couldn't take me yourself, hm?"

The Jedi certainly had a mouth on him, but the Sith allowed it...for now. Kenobi still hadn't realized the full scope of his looming downfall. So Maul simply smiled back and moved his chess piece into position.

"Yes, it does seem that way," he announced dramatically, stepping down from the stylish chair and striding toward the downed Obi-wan. "But, you see, I was busy. Can't keep a Duchess waiting, after all."

At this, the wounded man almost forgot his motion sickness and excruciating injuries, trying to leap into action. But before he could even attempt it, Maul stomped on his leg, re-breaking it. The Jedi screamed, unable to control himself.

"Oh quiet," Maul growled, lips turning up even more. "She's not dead...yet. Why don't you spend some quality time?"

A light grunt sounded close to Kenobi's ear as Maul threw her to the floor. A chime of clanging bracelets reverberated as they hit marble.

Satine gasped, struggling to take in as much air as she could. Then, she wasted no time in crawling over to her forbidden love, snatching and holding onto his raw hand. The sight of her lovely, pale face eased much of his pain, and he gave her a cocky grin which soon faded into a grimace.

He had wanted to say hello, but found speaking quite impossible.

"Obi-wan, can you hear me?" she whispered, putting the back of her free hand to his forehead. "Please stay with me..."

A round of chuckles rung around the couple, started off by Maul which spread amongst the Death Watch guards. Satine paid them no mind, looking over Obi's wounds. His face looked as if he had been within kissing distance of an explosion, his usually neat beard mangled with dirt and blood. Yet his legs received the worst of it, with deep slashes in the flesh that leaked fresh red tears. The knee that Maul had tramped on was twisted grotesquely, Satine thought she could see a peek of a bone. Infection seemed unavoidable, if no one helped, he would be dead by morning.

"What have you gotten yourself into this time, my love?" she murmured, her face grave.

Even in his condition he managed to whoop up a small snigger.

"So touching," came the Sith's pitiless tease.

Without letting go of his hand, Satine looked over her shoulder and glared bravely.

"Monster!" she accused fiercely. "If he does not receive medical attention..."

"He'll die?" Maul interrupted, sauntering back to his lofty perch. "That's the point, Duchess."

Worry maimed her features, and she turned back around. Maul was delighted to see her struggle, knowing she could do nothing on her own. She tore at her already tattered, sky-blue dress and attempted to splint his warped leg and shoulder. He grunted at her touch, but did not show the extent of his torture. Or at least tried to.

"Sorry, sorry..."she repeated over and over, ripping more cloth and mopping up the obscene amount of blood spilling out of him.

It was clear she was swimming against a tsunami tide. No matter how hard she tried, it just wasn't enough. All the while, Maul hooted like a barbarian in the background.

"Obi-wan! Please!" she pleaded, placing her elegant, decorated fingers on the sides of his face.

He managed to lift his less battered arm and place his hand on hers, his eyes searching.

"S-s-a-ti..."he tried to choke, eyes watering.

Time was spiraling downward, she had to think of something, anything to save his life. Thousands of thoughts sped through her mind, then a look of resolve flashed in her sea-colored pupils. Regretfully she let go of Kenobi and stood to face Maul, her attire tainted in innocent blood.

Lifting a hand to his chin, Maul pondered what petty speech this woman had to offer.

"Help him," she insisted, her queenly head raised proudly. "I will give you anything you want."

He only scoffed.

"And what do you have that I could possibly want, girl?" his rotten teeth flashing hideously at her.

"Information," she replied, resisting the will to bite her lip.

He shook his head, grinning.

"Almec already knows more than you ever knew."

Obi-wan mumbled incoherently behind her, spitting up, his eyes were glazing over.

Out of options, she tucked away her nobility and kneeled, playing to Maul's narcissism.

"Take me," she whispered, head lowered. "Sell me, do what you will. I will not resist. My life is yours. But save him!"

This was what he was waiting for, her submission. Of course, her life was already in his hands, but having her willfully surrender herself was a thing too precious to pass up on. He decided he could make this work wonders for him.

Any resistance and the Jedi would pay the price, but the guilt and blood would be on her hands. Elated, he now had the opportunity to physically and mentally destroy Kenobi and his beloved-a two-front victory, two birds and one excruciating stone.

Fingers interlocked under chin, Maul let her stew in anxiety. The dying light of day painted her sorrowful countenance a muted violet, her tousled white-blonde locks sparkled with a final glimmer and then were masked in shadow. It was a temptation to see her complexion illuminate again under the moonlight, there was no avoiding her beauty.

Yet, he had a deal to strike.

"Fine," he declared, obviously shocking some of the guards who flinched at his verdict. "Take him away and put him in a tank."

Clearly relieved, her shoulders fell from their tense position.

"Thank you," she breathed, hating her words as they squeaked out, bound by dignity.

She moved to see Obi-wan off, but her feet would not move, she remained bowed upon the cold ground.

"Not so fast, Duchess," the Sith snarled, his red-veined whites encompassing an ever dilating pupil. "I think you can see just fine from where you are. Besides, we have some business to discuss further."

Her head was able to move and she swerved it to see the menacing sentries drag a barely breathing Kenobi out of the chamber doors, Savage tailing them.

Gulping, she squelched her uprising terror, and looked the devil straight in the face.


	6. Choice

**A/N: Warning: Getting darker.**

"Please, allow me to—"

With a bored flick of the wrist, her words were cut off, mouth unable to move.

"Silence," Maul grumbled out, annoyed.

Every part of her was screaming to follow Kenobi, to see him properly taken care of. It became clear that this was not going to happen and paralyzing terror replaced her worry. As she remained kneeling, bowing upon the crimson stained marble floor, the sun was pinched out of the sky—the switching of the guard from day to night.

Again, the Sith simply studied her. In the minutes after the Jedi's disappearance, her confidence waned precariously, he sensed it. Nevertheless, she was not one to grovel or sob, so perhaps this meeting did not have to be awkward.

In another life, Maul may have simply killed the two of them, and satisfied his bloodthirst. But years of insanity in the garbage pit had taught him that quick deaths would not suffice any longer. Where was the justice? The equal opportunity?

The once pristine throne room lay decaying. The stained glass portraits and artistic canvas were defaced and torn to shreds, the carnage never cleaned. Satine saw her own tattered, painted eyes looking at her, the last remains of her rule.

Sentries lined the walls, stock straight, awaiting orders. Their new facades hid their expressions, but she could feel their hatred burning a hole in her head. The officers were adorned with makeshift horns and streaks of red, the cadets only had black lines painted, imitating the intricacies of Maul's own face.

They seemed out of time, savages who had sacked her beloved city. She wondered if they preferred the Sith over Vizsla, and if they could be persuaded to turn against the maniac. The idea evaporated when she recalled how much she was despised among their ranks, new leader or not. Plus, a coup against Maul and his bull-headed brother was a death wish.

No, it was only her and Kenobi.

Anger began to rise up in her throat. The Jedi would not come. The bureaucracy of neutrality halted any rescue. Moreover, Maul was establishing powerful roots. The more entrenched he became on the black market, the more alliances he would make with brutes. Mandalore would be a formidable opponent against peace once again.

A flurry of emotion raged in her heart: Anger, hopelessness, terror, and deep concern. The silent minutes passing only worsened them, she could not even speak, could not ventilate. If she ever got her voice back she would scream.

After attuning himself to her, he decided she had been patient long enough, but it had been delectable to follow her progress from flickering hope to suffocating sorrow.

He coughed nonchalantly. Satine merely glared at the ground.

"Now about this deal…" he began, once again descending from his lounge.

Placing hands behind back, he circled her predatorily, the metal of his covered feet clanking ominously.

 _What more was there?_ She thought, supposing he was rubbing it in and nothing more.

"You have sworn to pledge yourself and all that you are, to me and my wishes," he stated matter-of-factly, his wispy voice gravelly and cruel. "Is that correct?"

The way he said it made a shiver run down her spine, electrifying her adrenaline.

Mouth still unmovable, he waved a hand and she felt it loosen. There was much she wanted to say to him, and much of it was certainly not dignified in the least.

Stubborn, she gave a slight, brisk nod, not bothering to look up. He would not get the pleasure.

Unacceptable, he struck like a snake. He snatched her jaw in his clawed, gloved palm and squeezed evilly. Wrenching her lowered head up, he forced her to peer directly into his bloodshot, magma eyes.

In a desperate attempt, she tried to get away, to run, but he still held her in a vice grip with the force. It felt as if strings had been attached to her when she hadn't been looking and now he held all of them, flicking them around, making her dance.

The room had inhaled; there was a gaping void of noise.

"Say it," his tongue slithered out between his clenched teeth, the words barely audible.

With a rude motion, he let her chin go. Without meaning, she hung her tangled, white-blonde head again, trying to mask her rushed breathing.

"No!" he barked, a putrid smile playing on his lips. "Look me in the eye!"

Neck snapped up like a marionette, she fought uselessly against it. His demon face made her want to retch. Still wanting to beat him at his own game, her lips were a hard line, her brow furrowed in an angelic scowl.

He had hoped she would be a challenge, it meant more pain for Obi-wan.

"I see," he perceived, grin intact. "If we cannot come to an agreement, then I have no choice but to terminate the Jedi."

The hold on her body evaporated, his back was to her, he was walking away, but he waved an arm and a couple of guards sprung out from their posts and began sprinting toward the door.

Eyes widening, she kicked herself for letting rashness overcome duty.

"Wait!" she shouted, voice trembling, an arm stretching outward diplomatically.

The two men stopped, the Sith turned slowly back around. It was too easy with her.

"I-I'll say it," she choked out.

As he came back, she wrapped her arms around herself protectively, but she did not look away. The Death Watch pair returned to their viewing stations.

Seeming even smaller, she peered straight up at the Sith. He waited.

"I…" she exhaled, feeling as though another puppet string had been attached. "I swear."

Toying with her, he pushed it.

"To what?"

Swallowing thickly, biting her cheek, she regained composure.

"To pledge myself and all that I am to…" another take of breath. "…you. And your wishes. "

There was no paper contract, but her vocal signature felt like it had taken her very soul, signed in blood, permanent.

Smug and victorious, he pressed on, beginning to pace silently in front of her.

"And do you swear not to disobey me, under penalty of death for you and the Jedi?"

Face pleading, but only receiving a vacant and cruel response, she could not hold the tear in, and it sprouted out of her stormy eye and made a translucent trail down her pallid cheek.

"I swear," she whispered.

"Then it is done," he announced vainly.

The strength left in her vanished, and she practically collapsed, hollowed. Holding herself up on shaking shoulders, she tried her best not to faint, knowing it would only earn her more embarrassment. The guards were mumbling, obviously extremely content with her punishment.

The black-clothed Sith bent down to her level, ignoring the ambiance, and put his cracked mouth to her ear. She flinched at the caress of his voice on her skin.

"But I warn you, _Duchess_ ," he growled, sneering at her lost title. "Anger me in the least and this exchange will seem like a dream. Pain and suffering await you, and you and your precious Kenobi will not escape my vengeance. Death will come, but I leave this choice: Die in your insolence or survive for a while longer in obedient slavery."

The future seemed like a nightmare. She had saved Obi-wan but for how long? They were both doomed, and she contemplated keeping her pride and spitting in Maul's face, earning a valiant death. Yet, it was not only her life at stake but her dearest friend's. How could she not at least earn him the chance at living, if only for a little while?

The complexities of morality waged war in her mind, but she knew that any decision now was foolish, she would have to mull over her next move. Never would her patience be tested as desperately.

As the blood-colored Sith stood, he grabbed her arm and lifted her harshly to her feet. Weak and wobbling, she tried her best to stand on her own power, but it was useless, and she let herself be completely dragged.

Leading her like a prized trophy, he took the limp, stumbling woman to a clearly decorated lieutenant. His crooked antlers were spiked haphazardly around his helmet with a good variety of obsidian and burgundy stripes scratched against his menacing visage.

It was not hard to see that simply being near the Duchess made this man obscenely angry. She was in for a rough night.

"Drack," Maul snapped, shoving Satine into the man's unwilling demeanor. "See to it that the former Duchess is... _comfortable_."

At this, she became shockingly alert, warning bells shrieked like banshees in her head. Now it was her turn not to break eye contact with Maul. A deep and progressing anxiety threatened her core, but the Sith only smiled, enjoying the horror he sensed running through her veins. In vain, she searched his expression, trying to find any answer to his actions, but he gave nothing away, making it unbearable.

"What?" she managed to squeak, but they all ignored her.

Keeping composure was becoming an impossibility.

Taking over control, the lieutenant placed both her hands in front of her and clasped them with cuffs. A yard-long chain was attached to them, and he wrapped it once around his strong arm and white-knuckled it in his palm. Then, he began walking quickly toward a door on the eastern side of the throne.

It was too much responsibility, and she stumbled and fell, but the guard did not slow down. He only gave a great heave and brought her painfully back to her feet as the cuffs dug into her wrists, clamping the bone.

"Oh, and don't forget to get her a change of clothes," the Sith hooted after them.


	7. Calm

The laughter of Maul still rang as she was led down the darkened hallway. Truly, they did not even try to retain any former glory of the last reign. Dingy, as only a male's touch could be, streaks of filth splattered the walls. She guessed it had been from the inauguration it reeked of gin.

Yet there were more pressing matters to ponder over. Where was this brute taking her? Was Obi-wan even alive? Would Obi-wan's friends come for them both or be restrained by governmental regulation?

These questions raced through her thoughts, coloring them a dull despair. She hardly realized where she was going, but tried to remember the way, just in case of escape: A right, a left, two more rights, and a long way straight, with intricate metal doors. She recognized these rooms as honorary guest areas, her former bedroom was not too far away.

Then she realized, of course he would take over her private quarters. It made a shiver run down her spine. She did not even want to imagine the remodeling. Something told her that severed heads would accent the bone furniture.

 _Savages..._ she accused silently.

But much to her surprise, she passed her familiar panels, they were cracked slightly open, and she managed to catch a glimpse. It looked just the same, maybe he wasn't sleeping there. Even in her situation, relief was palpable.

The lieutenant, Drack, was a merciless walker, and would not tolerate slow pace. There had been a fleeting hope to catch him off guard and run, cuffs and all; however, this would mean she would either have to jump out a window or waltz right back into the throne room. If she managed to hide, they would eventually find her, and this would mean dual suffering for her and Obi.

Moreover, she had no idea where the Jedi was. Maybe they kept him in the same hospice area, maybe they had moved it. A new ruler meant rearrangement.

Maul was brutish, but certainly not dim-witted. It was a good probability he had shuffled everything around, just in case she managed to flee. What she needed before any plan could be made was a good reconnaissance.

Stifling her terror, which ebbed rather easily the further she got away from the Sith, she squinted in the dark, trying to find a clue besides the stained wallpaper; however, before anything of interest came along, the journey ended, and the two of them halted at a set of small panels.

They slid open obediently, and she was shoved in. Before the door locked, Drack grumbled:

"Be right back."

Chains still weighing down her wrists, she shuffled around the space. It was one of the smaller rooms, but she supposed she should be lucky. It could have been a prison cell. Then again, she supposed Obi was most likely in the dungeons himself, and Maul was certainly determined to keep them as separated as possible. Attempting a rescue for either was even more of an impossibility now. Even if another Jedi came, he or she would have to retrieve them from opposite ends of the palace. Only one would be saved.

It would most certainly be Obi.

Keeping her close to Maul was a brilliant, if terribly unfortunate, strategy. Even if her friend escaped, there was little hope for her. Yet, this was not as bleak as it seemed. He would be able to live on, this had been the very reason for the deal.

Realizing this gave the former Duchess a much needed lift to her spirits. As a pacifist, this was a fair trade.

Nonetheless, the concern lay not in her resolution, but in its lifespan. How long would she be able to stand against the tides of the dark side? Maul would certainly try and aggravate her to disobedience and use that moment of weakness as a lesson in pain.

This was inevitable.

Yet, if she did not concede, Maul would perhaps grow tired of the game and kill them both.

 _But he had said that obedience would win his monstrous favor!_ she thought.

The situation made her feel very small, demoted. Sighing deeply, she sat down upon the square bed. It was not a terrible room. A canopy cascaded from the ceiling, surrounding the mattress, she swatted it away from her. The metallic walls contrasted sharply with the internal warmth, yet the marble ground was cool on her feet. Another set of panels were across from her, a few yards away from the foot of the bed. She supposed it was the entryway to the bathroom, or at least hoped it was.

Curiosity getting the best of her, she strode cautiously toward it.

As any other portal, it snapped briskly open, making her flinch.

Indeed it was a washroom, equipped with everything she needed. It seemed unfair that she should live in this luxury when she knew Kenobi probably only had a chamber pot and a bucket of water. She wondered if she should protest and request a worse room, but Maul seemed to be intent on imprisoning her here.

It had to be a part of his psychological torment. She supposed her reputation as a humanitarian had even reached the Sith's ears, and this was his way of turning it on its head. She wasn't sure if she should be flattered or outraged. In the moment, she favored the latter.

Huffing, she stomped away and resumed her brooding on the edge of the bed. The brash soldier had said he would be back, but it had been at least an hour since.

Although she dreaded just exactly what her new wardrobe would be, it couldn't be worse than having a loved one's blood smearing her skirt. Head buzzing with a thousand worries and anxieties, she threw herself down. The mattress springs jolted her for a second, and then everything went still once again.

There was no sound, nothing but a faint hum of electricity coursing through the walls and the tinkling of her breathing.

 _He seems to have a flare for irony..._ she thought bitterly as she studied the gaudy, frilly awning that blocked her from seeing the ceiling.

A prisoner, but a privileged one, it made her positively disgusted. Her failures as a Duchess did not deserve this. Furrowing her blonde brow, she glared upward, wishing she could cross her arms.

Time passed painstakingly.

After enough of it had gone by, she decided that the lieutenant wasn't coming back. Exhausted from the day's dealings, she shifted herself into the middle of the bed and turned over on her side. Sleep managed to come easily, and she drifted off.

* * *

His last memory had been of Satine, her lovely face hanging precariously in his sight. Then, nothing. He had thought death had finally come for him.

Yet, he had been spared.

After only what seemed a few moments of unconsciousness, he awakened in a tank, hooked to a breathing machine, a nurse-droid staring in at him with vacant, glowing eyes. The machine grumbled something, and he felt the water drain, felt as he floated to the top.

There wasn't a lid to the enclosure, he saw the blurry light above him.

Seeing the rim, he grabbed onto it and pulled himself over the edge, hanging over the side. The tube was still lodged in his throat, which made everything uncomfortable. The nurse thankfully responded to his muted choking and yanked it routinely out of him. He was not unused to the feeling, he had been revived many times this way, but having a yard of plastic squeezed out of one's chest through the mouth was never a cakewalk.

He did not know how long he had been submerged, but he remembered that he was not in friendly territory. Attempting to leap out of the water earned him a reverberating gong of pain. Although he had survived, his body was still broken.

Apparently they did not want him too healthy.

He could not blame them. In the water, he had not realized just how much his legs were burning. But with each kick to keep afloat, they screamed in protest. His head still ached incessantly, while his shoulders were tender and sore, probably from being dragged nonstop. The only way out of the tank was with the help of his enemies, he realized.

He raised a stinging brow at the droid, who peered with an almost curious expression back up at him.

"Can you get me out of here?" he sputtered, surprised at how dry his throat was.

Not responding, the droid nonetheless set about looking for a stretcher. Roaming quickly around the space, he swiveled and swerved but returned with a decent board, which he lifted up to Kenobi's level. Taking a deep breath, the Jedi knight pushed himself up by the shoulders and managed to flop onto the thin, linen plank.

Of course, his weight was too much for the bot and they both fell roughly to the ground. He had expected pain, but this was excruciating. It was if every nerve was set to explode if it came into contact with anything.

The blow had knocked him out for a second, but he kept himself partially aware. A pool of liquid seeped against his bare skin, making him shiver.

"What have you gotten yourself into this time, old boy?" he mused aloud.

As if on cue, the sliding doors opened, Obi-wan did not need to see to know that Maul had strode in, his dark presence reverberated confidently in the force.

A group of Death Watch soldiers and of course Savage came in behind him. The Jedi might have had a glimmer of embarrassment if he hadn't been in so much pain. He was, however, regretting his decision to prematurely crawl out of the tank.

Sprawled, surrounded in a dirtied puddle of water, and half-clothed, it was surreal seeing a full-fledged Jedi in such a state.

Disgusted, Maul gave a sneer toward his arch enemy, such weakness.

"Get him on his feet," he ordered, growling to the guards.

Kenobi felt gloved grips pull his sore arms upward, heaving him harshly to a standing position. Swallowing a groan, he focused all of his energy on staying awake as his knees flopped grotesquely, the new bones still fragile, the scar tissue unbearable.

Looking him up and down with an unimpressed glimmer in his eyes, Maul felt rather proud of his accomplishment. It had been easy to break the Jedi. Perhaps a bit too easy, he mulled. This was why he would prolong the suffering, for it had been his sole wish to see Kenobi die. But he wouldn't give him a quick demise.

As he pondered his next move, the bearded Jedi finally raised his pathetic head, his face contorted in semi-veiled anguish, and actually managed to smirk boyishly back at Maul.

Snarling at his insolence, the devilish man motioned for the sentries to take the hobbled prisoner away. He would wipe the happiness from Kenobi's eyes.


	8. Appearances

Thankfully, he was able to keep his balance and hobble along with the Death Watch sentries. It was odd, for he half-expected them to kick his legs out from under him as soon as they turned a corner. Although his instincts told him that great pain was in his future and that he best try to escape as quickly as possible, he couldn't.

For once his senses did not seem right.

Maul was following closely, his brutish brother keeping equal stride. Even if he used the force, even if by some miracle he threw off his captors, his body was weak, it needed time to heal. The very thought of running made his throat clench, his stomach swirl.

There was also Satine to think about. She had been the very reason he had come here, and he was not going to leave without her. How could he ever look himself in the eye again knowing he had left her to a fate worse than death? Detachment may have been the Jedi way, but so was honor and selflessness.

Resolute in his decision, he knew that it was a good probability that his condition at the present time would be favorable to how it would be in a week. Perhaps this was the best time for escape for himself, but not for the Duchess. He would need to find her, they would need to plan.

Finally, the group entered into ironically bright prison. The ray-shields drumming, their turquoise-colored translucency just the same. Each cell owned a single, lumpy cot and a pail of water. Food was shot up through a hole in the floor, and only came when the inhabitant was asleep or properly detained. Therefore, only one meal was customary for the more dangerous criminals. Obi-wan wasn't sure if he would even receive that much.

The place was emptier than he remembered. In fact, it was desolate, there wasn't a single soul.

 _That can't be a good sign..._ he thought, eyes shifting back and forth.

However, they passed by the cells, and came instead to a secretive door at the back of the area. With each step his heart beat thumped. Indecision crept back into his mind. Should he make an attempt? What would happen to Satine if he did? Was there any possibility? A detail, a clue he missed?

The shadows grew deeper, the cerulean light of the shields flickered upon Kenobi's drawn face, and then he was masked in darkness. They halted their progression. Premonitions echoed, shrieking in the force, every nerve telling him to run while he could. Despite this tremor, it was silent, nothing seemed to be behind the door. No roaring or slumbering beast, he could not detect anything. He would not run.

Practically gleeful, or as close as he could come to such an emotion, Maul stepped out from behind and came to stand beside him, wanting to savor the moment. The sentry on his right tugged the Jedi closer and the panels snapped open.

Trying to keep a calm, casual facade and mind, Obi-wan could not help feeling a small jolt of expectation mixed with panic. He was preparing for the worst.

No judgments could be made, however, because the room was cloaked in black, completely devoid of light. Confused, he managed to cock his head in the Sith's direction, waiting for the big reveal. Yet, his enemy said nothing as he returned his glance with a bloodshot one.

"Just as I was alone and left for dead in the dark," Maul pronounced evilly. "So shall you be."

Without another word, he snagged Kenobi by the arm and threw him mercilessly into the void as if the Jedi was a slab of meat for a half-starved dog.

Clambering and falling painfully to his fragile knees, he managed to look back at the elated faces of the Dathomirians before he was locked away in an endless night. As he panted, he heard the footsteps grow fainter until they disappeared.

The only sound was that of his pained inhales, and nothing else. No white noise of electricity, no buzz of a bug close by, nothing. It was then that he understood his punishment. Just as Maul had said, Obi-wan was to be in left in a space that paralleled nonexistence. Solitary confinement of the worst variety with the added terror of perpetual blindness.

Insanity would be certain for most people, taking only a few days before illusions would appear, before they would start hearing things that were not there; however, as an optimistic Jedi, he countered that silence was a skill, and meditation was not very different from this. Forming a plan, he would treat this as the longest contemplation of his life. Where the force was, the physical senses were not needed, right?

Yet, as he tried to push off the ground, his body creaked and protested. Humbling to a crawl, he threw out his arm in search of anything that might be lurking. The rough linen of a cot greeted his touch a few feet to the left, and the metallic rim of a bucket was next to make itself known after another few minutes of searching. Attempting to lay out the map in his mind, he went back to the bed, climbed onto it, and flipped over, thoroughly exhausted.

Unsure of what to do next and how to accomplish anything of use, his lids grew heavy, his brain began to slow and drift. A purer blackness overtook him, one with colors and images, and he lost himself in it, saving the worries for another time. Yet, as he began to slumber, there was still a nagging at the back of his mind: What would become of Satine?

* * *

The sound of whooshing and clicking brought her to a startled awakening. Immediately she shot straight up, and turned to face her new opponent, practically jumping off the bed and into a fighting stance. Hair disheveled, clothes wrinkled with old blood stains, and wrists still clasped in cuffs, it was a strange sight to behold.

And unfortunately it was the lieutenant, still in the same uniform, finally making good on his promise to return.

It was clear he was desperately trying to hold in a jeer, but he wasn't succeeding as he chuckled darkly and then spat:

"Down, girl."

Propriety then began to take over, and she relaxed, straightened, and held her chin up. Although supremely annoyed, she did not make a retort, for she wished not to embarrass herself further. Plus, she began to realize that the incorrigible man was holding something.

Satisfied with the look on her face, he strode confidently in, and flung the clothes right at her. Thankfully her reflexes were quick and she snagged them out of the air, cuffs and all.

It was clear he had expected her to flail or drop them, because he grumbled something about how he "hated being a babysitter" and began to leave. But before he did, he tossed a key over his shoulder which sailed and clanged against the wall.

Now she liked him even less, if that were possible, but managed to find the small piece of metal and awkwardly ditch her restraints. Happy to be free of them, she rubbed her wrists. Relatively deep lines had been made from sleeping, and her arms were sore from being in one position for so long, but she was not complaining.

Suspicious that the Sith snuck a bomb or some other horror into the pile of fabric, she analyzed it carefully, peeling each layer off one by one. Only a few clinking, shiny red bands bounced out. Thankfully, he did not send her anything too atrocious, for she was expecting some sort of humiliating garb, like what the slave girls at the Hutts wore. Shivering at the thought alone, she let her head drop back as she stared incoherently at the ceiling.

Yet, no matter where she looked, Obi's blood was always hanging tauntingly in her peripheral. If Maul had known how desperate she was to be rid of her current dress, he may have made a different choice.

Shaking her head, trying to clear her thoughts, she decided that a bomb-threat was unlikely and scooped the clothes up. She hadn't gotten the chance to really notice the style, which became shockingly clear after she donned them.

It certainly wasn't like anything she was used to.

In her time, she preferred colors that matched the sea, with flowery ornaments that resembled wings weaved into her hair. These were symbols of life and vibrancy to her. Of course, the Sith seemed to be the opposite, this she knew.

He only wore black, a stark representation of death and sorrow, and she now matched it. Made of layered material, it was a red so deep it was practically black. With a grimace, she thought the new Death Watch uniforms were bright and sunny in contrast.

The neckline swept diagonally, going under her left arm and leaving it and the respective shoulder blade bare. The deep burgundy tunic was a relatively good fit, coming down to just above her hip bone, showing a peek of skin. The skirt was long and actually rather graceful. It flowed better and had a split an inch above the knee line, allowing her to move easily.

The one sleeve loosened the closer it got to the hand, stretching to her fingers in a 'v' shape. Trimmed in gray, it was difficult to discern the red, even close up.

The only thing left were the bracelets which looked to be too large for her wrists and had significant openings in the sides, so she assumed they would decorate her bare upper arm. She proved to be right. In all, she looked far more humble, bordering on servant. They gave her no shoes, but only another bangle.

A queen of gypsies, she had descended far from her glory days. Yet, this was the price of war. She'd rather be a laughingstock than in the stocks. She sighed profoundly and wished that they provided something to keep her tangled hair out of her face.

Within only a few minutes of surveying herself in the small mirror, she heard the panels in the main room click open. Cursing under her breath, she prepared for ridicule, bitterly yearning for Kenobi's calming, cocky presence.

Swallowing her pride, she strode purposefully out of the washroom, ready to face her adversaries head-on. No silly garment would unravel her so easily.

Expectedly, Drack was there, not even bothering to mask his apathy. As she made her entrance, however, he turned his helmeted head, with painted, knobbed horns and all, and gave a patronizing low whistle. It sounded even worse as it resonated from under his thick face-guard. In another life, she would have yelled till her face turned blue and might have contemplated kneeing him in the groin. It was still deliriously tempting.

Instead she settled for a murderous glare.

Unimpressed, he scoffed and went about snatching the worn restraints off the ground. Groaning inwardly as she watched, she had thought she had rid herself of those things, at least for the rest of the day.

Picking them off the marble, he tossed them up and down in his palm meanly, taunting her. She had half a mind to place her hands petulantly behind her back but only pressed her lips into a hard, irritated line.

Without another warning, he rushed forward and shackled her once again, not even giving her the chance. Now she saw why the Sith liked him so much, for he was just as loutish. Even though she had only been released of the constraints for a short time, she forgot how heavy they were. It was a stark contrast to her lighter apparel.

Although a woman of dignity, she was having a difficult time keeping her expressions monotone. One could easily see how much she loathed being a prisoner, her face screwed up, as if trying to control her anger but failing. Pre Vizsla may have been defeated, but he would have enjoyed this torture.

Grunting for her to follow, Drack snagged the chain roughly and yanked her out of the room, back into the dim corridor. A Death Watch reject may have been one annoyance but a Sith was quite another thing entirely, and her anxiety began to bubble up in her throat.

Her quiet feet swept the tile, soaking up the newfound dirt there. Having her toes exposed felt so improper, it was possibly the worst thing about her condition. The sound contrasted sharply with Drack's careless stomps, echoing.

The closer they got, for she began to recognize the route, the more ghastly images filled her mind. What if Obi-wan's blood was still marking the floor and she _stepped_ in it? Would she ever get the smell of it off? What if this was an elaborate hoax, and Maul was dressing her for death? Or maybe he was planning to sell her?

Even worse, she could practically feel the eyes of the men on her. She hadn't seen many women sentries, though it was difficult to tell. Maul had reveled in recounting to her the death of her estranged sister, which still made her heart ache. Memories threatened to weaken her resolve all the more but she had to repress them. Mourning would come later.

Plus, it wouldn't be like the Dathomirian to maintain gender equality in the ranks, he did not seem like the activist type. Perhaps he didn't care, or maybe he thought profit could be had. Trafficking still had a repulsive following in the black market, and Mandalorian happiness was of no consequence for Maul. He only needed their planet like how a parasite only needed a host.

The faded elegant portal was coming into view, barely visible. Like the lighting, her confidence grew dimmer the closer she got. Kicking herself for not letting her hair grow longer, for it would provide at least a bit of cover, she found it difficult to breathe. Two rival instincts emerged: One screaming for her to fly, the other to fight.

It was a pipe dream to think she could evade the lieutenant who was half a head taller, and who also had a variety of weapons strapped menacingly to his belt. Drack seemed to be aware of her increasingly hesitant steps and gave a jerk, making her almost stumble right into him. Chortling quietly as she huffed, the panels began to snap open. In the moments before entering, she lowered her head and whispered to herself:

"Obi..."


	9. Meat

**A/N: Sorry for the wait. This chapter's a bit evil, so prepare yourself. :D**

* * *

"Obi..."

Luckily Drack did not hear her desperate whimper and trudged along.

As the panels flicked wide, she was brought back to the throne of Maul. Last time he had had a leg up casually on the cathedra's arm rests, basking in his newfound glory with an arrogant posture. Now, he was intense, barely sitting as he coiled on the edge of his seat, ready to spring.

This transformation was confirming some of her worst fears. He had to be expecting company of some sort. Looking around, she spotted no foreign party, no dealers, mobsters, or terrorists. The familiar guards still stood attentively, awaiting orders.

Confused, she cocked a brow at Drack's back.

 _Maybe he is going to kill me..._ she fretted.

Eyes widening, she tried to maintain a flat expression, but the terror was peeking through.

 _Steady...steady..._ she chanted to herself, inhaling and exhaling purposefully.

A clammy sweat sprouted in her hairline, her knees knocked, every step was an eternity and yet too fast. Finally, the last tooth was pulled and Drack halted. With a merciless heave, she was sent flying forward, stumbling into the steps that sat before the throne.

She did not look into his eyes, but kept her head firmly down.

It was an odd stance, for she was a bit too far from the lieutenant's hold and had her hands twisted around while trying to stand straight. After a moment it was apparent that she was to remain in an awkward hunched position, as if cowering.

A bitter anger replaced the fear. She gave a useless jerk, grinding her teeth.

"Let me go!" she hissed, glaring at the ground.

A bark of laughter answered her.

Still she did not raise her glance, did not give him the honor of her cerulean irises.

"You're a feisty one, aren't you?" the Sith remarked, his wispy, throaty voice echoing in the silence.

 _Face down...face down..._ became her new mantra.

Hair spilling into her vision, she had to keep the wrath intact, had to drown out the panic.

"Come now, Duchess," he said, jumping from his spot. "We both know you're not a fighter. You cannot possibly have anything to gain from giving into your anger this late in the game."

He spoke truth, the fury was obviously temporary, a withering shield. Plus, she was outmatched in this area; her petulancy was unimpressive compared to the ruthless ferocity of Maul.

Nevertheless, she could not give into the dread, it would surely destroy her. Unfortunately, this was exactly what the Dathomirian wanted, and he advanced upon her in the blink of an eye. Instead of the familiar marble, now she was staring at his black, soulless boots which hid his metal, unnatural feet.

She hadn't even heard the click of his heels.

The Death Watch looked on as he snatched her jaw in his vice grip and wrenched it upward, forcing her to peer into his red-veined whites. Never mind the humiliation, but the pain that he so easily inflicted was astonishing. She was certain he was going to snap the bone with his gloved fingers.

"Do we need to get the Jedi involved, hm?" he taunted, his breath enveloped her face.

Whatever barrier she had made shattered. The inferno quieted and cooled into trembling horror. Not able to speak, she shook her head wildly, or as wildly as she was able to.

Releasing her, she took ragged breaths, dropping to her knees, unable to rub feeling back into her cheeks, her hands still held down.

It was all but certain that she would see finger-shaped bruises in the mirror tomorrow...if she lived that long. An exchange was carried out above her head; she felt the cuffs chafe her wrists as it jangled. Drack had tossed the chain to Maul, the clatter tickled her ear.

Bracing herself, she waited for the expected yank. Yet, there was none. Lifting her head, she saw him only gingerly hold the shackles in a loose grip. A grin stretched across his black-striped face, creating branches.

"I don't think force will be necessary," he explained. "Will it, Duchess?"

 _Horrid man!_

Swallowing her pride, she shook her head again, feeling her tangled tendrils brush against her exposed neck.

"Well?" he asked.

She bit her cheek and made a move to stand. In a flash, she was knocked right back down, a sore rebuke from an unseen hand.

Clicks of tongue were the only answer.

"I never said to stand."

Toes curling, blood boiling, she chewed her lip, tearing away the skin, waiting. The invisible weight relented, and she felt control return.

"Let's try this again."

She said nothing, did nothing, and only gazed blankly up at him.

Pleased that her spirit was already beginning to snap under the burden of his dominance, he still did not like what he felt reverberating in the Force. She was not voicing her aggression, but it was burning a hole in her nonetheless.

That would change. Soon she would completely lifeless inside—a hollow trophy and nothing else.

"Now, be a good girl and get up," he patronized.

Not hesitating, she stood, able to finally stretch to her full height. Clearly, he had a card or two up his sleeves, overconfident. Not giving away his hand, he let the chain fall from his grasp. It swung back and rattled against her calves.

The instant they were released a fleeting instinct to run fluttered in her mind. Unconsciously, she eyed the door, knowing it was a dead-end. It was of course foolish, she did not act, but he noticed it, and that was what mattered.

"When will you learn?" he sighed dramatically, and then lifted a hand.

Immediately, she felt the strings of an undetectable puppet master pull her up. Toes grazing the tiles, she levitated helplessly.

Like a stalking beast, he circled her, a hand raised to his chin, appraising. Unable to hide herself from his gaze, it felt as if beetles were crawling all over her skin. The nerves prickled with disgust, but she could not shudder, could not cringe.

Slowly, painfully, he went round and round, minutes between steps. Occasionally, he would snag a lock of her hair, or lift her arm, or adjust the bangles and quietly observe. If she had thought that the shadows of men's eyes were atrocious, it was nothing compared to the real thing.

Exposed and stretched, defenseless and unmovable, there was nothing to shield her from them, from their burning stares that singed past armor, past their covered faces. Yet, the white noise of their lust was a drop in the ocean compared to the intensity of the Sith.

He eyed her as if he was a starving man and she was the meal. It did indeed cross her mind if she was to be some sort of dish for a lurking monster, the way he looked at her.

No self-help repetition, no happy thoughts, all she could do was hang there and feel the agony of suspense.

After what seemed like several lifetimes, Maul stood in front of her, coming full circle. Sickly, slowly, he reached a hand out. Everything screamed for her to flee, to fly, to cringe, to hide, but they were overruled by his power.

Halfway to her, however, he held back. She almost breathed a sigh of relief, but he only stopped so that he could rip off his glove with his fanged teeth.

Before she could gasp, his heated palm was at the base of her neck. His clawed fingers pinched the skin as he pressed with increasingly strength. In response, her heartbeat thumped loudly, deafening. At this, he smirked cruelly, reveling in the fear.

She was like a personal punching-bag—easy to hit, defenseless.

When it felt as if her heart would explode, he withdrew his volcanic hand and re-dressed it. Turning away from her, he barked:

"Why doesn't my pet have a collar?"

Evidently, this seemed to be a cue, and a soldier rushed forward from the ranks. Kneeling at the Dathomirian's feet, he presented a thick strap. Maul accepted it, and the guard sprinted away.

Coming back to her, he held the necklace in front of her, and if she had been able to speak she would have cried "No!"

A simple, black-leather band with buckles at the end with mirroring holes hung in front of her; however, the metal emblem that hung unassumingly in the middle was anything but ordinary: A circle that appeared to be on fire—the symbol of the Sith.

Just as she had been marked on the heart by Obi-wan, now Maul would taint that with his own. For this occasion, he let her go from his unseen hold. Dropping harshly but managing to land it, she immediately scrambled away.

"Please!" she pleaded as he strode calmly after her. "Please!"

With each cry for pity, his grin only widened for he loved a good challenge, especially one that was impossible for the other side to win.

A couple of sentries shifted, ready to force her submission if needed, but it was clear that this was Maul's hunt.

Bare feet backing away, she peered over her shoulder, the main entrance still so far away. The chains clanked, tinkling against the floor like a snake.

The walls were closing in, she had to try.

 _Obi!_ her mind shrieked again and again. _Obi!_

Rock and a hard place, dare she don the crest of the enemy? Of pure evil? Principles or pacifism? The two did not seem to be connected any longer.

He expected her to bolt, she knew this. But how could she willingly accept this brand? The colors, the chains, and all the rest were bad enough, but this?

 _Remember why…_ a voice whispered to her.

In the end, she chose pacifism, as she always did, but she had been on the verge.

"Oh, Obi," she choked. "Forgive me."

Pushing a warm image of him smiling at her, with crinkled eyes (minus the beard that he had adorned recently) to the forefront of her thoughts, she halted her retreat. Defeated, she waited for Maul to corner her.

A sheep amongst wolves, he pounced, not letting her sacrifice excuse her from punishment.

In the middle of the room now, he wrapped his pitiless fingers around her neck and leaned in.

"You're _mine_."

The choker still clutched in his other fist, he freed her and she crumpled—she was getting used to the feeling of being strangled—yet, he did not make a move to put in on. A new idea had emerged.

"Drack!" he snapped, eyes not leaving her bowed form. "Retrieve the Jedi. Bring him here."

At his feet, she then connected their gazes.

"No…" she whispered, the heaviness of failure compressing her chest.

Grabbing her bare arm savagely, he harshly escorted her back to the throne. Limply, she let him. As he sat regally upon it, he forced her to her knees by his side, and made of show of holding her restraints across his lap. They waited.

It didn't take long. In a few minutes, the sound of their footsteps could be heard in the distance. The panels swooshed open, and her heart was squashed in a vice.

He walked with them, though it was obvious that he was not yet healed—a steady limp in his gait. Dressed in tattered rags, he was surrounded by four sentries. The panels shut loudly, locking.

She yearned to hold him in her arms, to tend his wounds, and soothe his troubles.

This was the exact response Maul wanted. He could practically taste her sorrow.

The Jedi was squinting against the dim light, flinching at the sound of the tapping boots. The dead silence of his prison already affecting him.

Able to spot Maul, he did not recognize the figure beside the Sith, and wondered who was with him.

The progression stopped and Maul stood and announced dramatically, sarcastically:

"Welcome, Kenobi, to the coronation."

Up close, he could see Maul much better, but this also extended to Satine. Dressed in a high-end, courtly servant uniform in Sith colors, his anger blistered at the sight.

"You'll pay—" he threatened, eyes not leaving the Duchess, whose eyes were glistening with shame.

"Yes, yes I know," the Dathomirian cut off, swatting his words away. "But quiet now, or you'll miss the best part."

Expecting a fight, Obi stiffened; however, Maul had no intention on combating. Instead, he tugged Satine to her feet and proceeded down the steps like a warlord gloating over his bounty.

It was clear the former Duchess knew what was about to take place, and she looked at Obi with a beseeching expression, unshed tears in her eyes as she was dragged to where the Jedi stood, guards at either side of him.

This was the closest they had been since yesterday, which seemed like an era ago.

They spoke no words, but love was palpable, live wire. Disgusted, Maul snorted, and moved to block Satine from Kenobi's sight.

"Enough of that," he growled. "What happened to detachment, Jedi? Your feelings betray you."

Touching upon a tender subject, Obi-wan snapped:

"That's none of your concern, _Sith_. What would you know about self-control? You're a reckless, murderous coward."

As always, Maul laughed it off, knowing he had the lot of them in a deadly checkmate.

"Reckless, eh?" he continued forward, lugging the former Duchess. "Tell me, _noble_ Obi-wan, just how did you end up here?"

A bubbling anger brewed in the pits of Obi's chest, he knew Maul was right. It had been rash of him to bolt off on an impossible rescue mission, all for the sake of the woman he was forbidden to love.

"I understand your frustration," the Sith noted mockingly, jerking his head toward Satine. "She is beautiful. Not even I can doubt that."

Instead of replying with a witty, nonchalant retort, Obi-wan only stood, glaring, a snarl engraved on his honeyed beard.

Whirling her to his side, Maul put an arm around her waist possessively. She cringed, but his hold was unshakable.

"But there is always room for improvement," he announced, jeering. "I think the colors are rather fetching, don't you? It reminds me of a good, red _,_ bloody piece of meat."

A hum of chuckles reverberated from the perimeter guards, Savage's laugh boomed.

Obi clenched his jaw and fists, heated blood flooding under the skin.

Tantalizing, Maul brought them within a few yards of one another, just out each other's grasp. A foul beam, skeleton grin, the Dathomirian held the Duchess's chains out for the enclosing Drack to snatch, freeing his hands.

"Don't touch her!" Kenobi yelled, struggling against the sentries.

His outburst was met with a kidney shot.

Whisking the Sithian choker out, realization hit Kenobi. Easily, he recognized the symbol. Helpless, he watched as Drack yanked Satine to a kneel, and Maul fastened the horrid thing around her fragile neck.

The emblem sat unassumingly at the base of her throat, but it was worse than she originally thought. As his gnarled hands fingered the clasp, he pulled the leather buckle to a chokehold. There was just enough room to breathe but not much else. Her eyes watered, and she immediately sought to free herself.

Snatching her desperate hands in his, Maul's smile widened to wolfish proportions.

"H-h-h…" was all she could choke out.

"Stop! Please stop!" Obi-wan wailed, tears dripping, unable to block his magmatic emotion.

He saw the pain in her eyes, his guilt mirrored.

It was worse torture than the dark room.

"Know my pain and suffer," Maul proclaimed, tightening his grip, crushing her fingers in his fists. "You brought this on her and yourself, Kenobi. You should have listened to your pathetic Masters."

Her strangled gasping underscored his words. Shame replaced the fury in Obi. The Force exposed this fact and Maul poured the salt in the gaping wound.

"In your arrogance you have exposed your weakness, Jedi," as he said this he twirled Satine against his body, arms across her chest, his demonic head next to hers; chin at the level of her eyes.

Calm façade disintegrated, Kenobi fought ferociously against the iron arms of Death Watch, brought to his knees like a prisoner of war on the execution block. He knew he was playing right into the Sith's hands, but he could not help himself, could not fight the drive to protect her.

"Look at him," Maul whispered in her ear, baiting. "Should I put him out of his misery?"

No air could be spared to respond, she hung her head limply. He had already made up his mind. What was the point?

She could feel his stare as he evaluated her, sickening her to the core.

"No, I don't think so…" he concluded, rasping. "Not today, anyway."

Walking backward, splitting them further, he nodded to Drack. Instantly, the lieutenant released the shackles and cracked his knuckles.

"But that doesn't mean I can't have some _fun_ ," he hissed, low enough for only her to hear.

Dragged away, she witnessed as each Death Watch sentry, each guard, lined up behind Kenobi. Drack started, giving a shattering punch to the Jedi's cheek. Unconsciously, she cringed, pushing against Maul's devastating hold.

"Ah-ah-ah," he rebuked, stiffening, carrying her further away, toward the eastern door.

Another hit. Each soldier would get one. Obi's face was already beginning to bleed, to bruise, and to swell. It was a Roman flogging, forty strikes.

She turned away, but Maul was there to force her head forward.

"Close your eyes and I'll bleed him dry," came the warning.

Mustering her air, she croaked:

"Obi!"

At her soft call, the Jedi whisked his battered, broken head up. Blood poured from his mouth, but he spat it away and gave her a smile, the white teeth glistening against the red backdrop. Snarling in rage, the Sith shouted:

"Apprentice!"

Savage pushed his way to the front and landed the final shot. Kenobi fell like a sack, knocked unconscious. That was the last she saw as the panels closed in front of her face, leaving her and Maul alone in the hall.


	10. Aphrodisia

**A/N: Buckle up. I expect some flames for this, but it is _so_ worth it. *evil laugh***

* * *

Obi-wan's body flopping profoundly to the floor was the last thing she heard and saw. The whole ordeal had been terrible yet somewhat expected; however, the anticipation was nothing compared to the actual thing.

Whereas her heart had been on the verge of cracking, she was sure that it was snapping in two. Every time she tried to justify or rationalize her actions, it only ended in suffering.

It was destined to get much worse.

For instance, she was still in Maul's clutches, her strangled gasps and exploding chest contrasted with his almost cat-like silence. She did not even hear him breathe, his horned, devilish head right beside hers.

Nor could she snap a retort, could not utter a plea, but could only agonize mutely—the collar doing its job.

"That will cost you dearly, Duchess," he hissed, his snaked breath wheezed.

She knew that calling out to Obi had been foolish, but she could not just sit idly and watch as the brutes beat him within an inch of his life—not after what she had forsaken to save him, not after seeing how broken he was already.

Quiet, nothing was heard beyond the door. It began to worry her. Surely, she was to be taken back to her lonely room, await her next trial. Yet, the way Maul spoke, it made it seem that she was to be flung right back into the lion's den.

Heart bursting, veins swelling, blood coursing, she was going in blind, no preparation this time. He began walking backward again, not willing to drop his advantageous, humiliating hold.

Obviously, no one was in this part of the palace, there was not a cricket of noise, just his padding feet and her rough scramble.

Desperate, she fought, struggled, tried to hang onto the floor by her toes. With each attempt to slow the progression, he only gave a menacing chortle.

"I told you," he mocked. "I gave you fair warning, but did you listen? No. Now pay the price, _Satine_."

The use of her first name by him sent a blizzard, a blanket, of petrified nerves whipping all over her skin. Frigid, she shuddered, and she faltered in her attempts, her feet got swept along, useless.

The last corner was turned, she recognized the familiar doors, and she kicked out, using all of her weak strength.

She heard him grunt with effort, not wanting to use the Force to coerce her, he relied on his strength alone, but she was putting up a desperate, animalistic fight.

"L-l-let… _go!"_ she heaved, one final push.

And he did.

A dirty elbow, she hit him square in the gut, and his grasp loosened. That was all she needed.

Wriggling away, she took off. He just missed the chains that flew behind her. With prayed hands, she ran recklessly, ignoring the smolder of her lungs, how she could never get enough oxygen.

No thought in her mind other than _run_ she dashed around corners, tried to keep her footing silent, tried to pick random halls, hide her trail. Constantly looking over shoulder, she didn't see his silhouette, no incoming footsteps. But, then again, he was lethally noiseless.

Speeding up, she slid into a wall, the slippery marble doing nothing to aid her escape. In a corner, she looked for a place, a barrow, anything that would cover her. Panting hard, she put her back against a set of panels, catching her nonexistent breath.

None of the portals would open for her, she couldn't conceal her obvious form—which was probably his intention.

Muttering a thousand swears, she pushed off and began running again, a hopeless cause. After a few minutes, her endurance was sapped, the edges of her vision blackened, brain screeching for air. Going to her knees, sweat pooled on the ground below her.

She had never been well acquainted with the Force, but she was desperate. Scrunching her face, she let her panic detonate, let it overwhelm her. Maul would certainly find her now, but maybe it would also send out a distress signal of some kind.

"Please…please…please…" she chanted pulling at her necklace to loosen it, trembling. "Let someone hear this! Help us!"

Two sounds, two little clunks of a boot, her senses prickled, and her flight drive took over once more. Not looking back, she shot up, but she did not get away this time.

The shackles betrayed her, as was their wont, and she was pulled down from behind, colliding with the hard ground like a meteor.

This impaired her breathing even more, and not even a breeze could make its way to her starved lungs. Stars glittered sporadically, her eyes tried to spot him, and they found Maul, leaning over.

"Your prayers have been answered," he said calmly, usual grin intact, although his pupils told a different story.

He was sorely pissed, a rabid dog, a spitting canon. His stare was consuming, hellfire. Her escape may have been shortsighted, for things could only get worse from here.

Incapacitated, her muscles and bones rebelled. Her will was strong, but the body was weak.

"Well, well," he pondered superficially. "This does change things. I was just going to give you a slap on the wrist, but _now…_ "

As he trailed off, her expression widened in fright. The whites of his eyes barely had any white in them at all, red irises and bulging veins engulfed it, a stone-cold black in the center.

Death seemed imminent; she turned away, the tiles against her cheek.

"Oh please," he growled. "Don't be so dramatic."

Instead of making her stand, he simply scooped her up, his rough, nailed fingers penetrating through the flesh of her arm and torso. It was surely uncomfortable, yet her weariness was crippling, she did not react.

Resources exhausted, she was taken back to her chambers. His quickened steps surged through the panels, her bare, dirty feet swung like a ragdoll.

Tossing her onto the bed harshly, she kept herself from rolling off the other side and into the wall. But this was all she could do, and she curled upon the sheets like a child as soon as she steadied herself. Maul simply stood there, hands clasped behind his back, dressed in his usual black.

"W-what…" she exhaled in a barely audible whisper. "Now?"

Hair seeping into her eyes, her blood was cooling quickly.

Sarcastically surprised, he gave a slight guffaw.

"Nothing to concern your pretty little head about," he hissed, glare-stricken expression. "After all, it's not _your_ legs that are about to be cut off."

Frail, quaking, she tried to get up, tried to bargain. At odds, she could just barely hold herself up by the elbow. He watched her pathetic attempts nonchalantly, though his eyes still seared.

"Don't even bother, girl," he advised cruelly. "There's nothing you can do or say to make me change my mind. My apprentice is already on his way."

Gulping, closing her eyes, she tried nonetheless:

"Anything!"

Lifting a considering hand to his chin, as if he was actually doing so, he feigned interest. Then, with a smirk, he replied:

"No."

The image of Obi being cut into pieces sent her into practical hysterics. But she had to believe she could offer _something_.

"P-please…" she whispered, crawling to the edge of the bed.

He rolled his eyes, but didn't move.

"Didn't you hear me? There is _nothing_."

Putting her feet upon the floor, she sat, clutching the comforter corners, taking a moment. She was not one to give up.

"I don't think you understand, fool," he hissed, anger boiling. "The Jedi is going to die. I _will_ have his head! My revenge cannot be bartered. I've waited too long for this."

Rising to a stand, she could not hold herself against gravity, and fell forward onto her face—literally groveling at his feet. She was a persistent one, and it gave him a colorless joy that she was failing.

Clutching at his boots, snagging a piece of his baggy, obsidian pants, she let her tears wash away the dirt on them. For a fleeting moment, he considered kicking her while she was down, but he paused, truly baffled by her.

It was not pity that emerged within his black-hole heart, but a deep pleasure at the suffering he was causing. If she would react this way every time the Jedi inched closer to death, what great humiliation and sorrow could he cause? The possibilities were practically infinite.

Killing was as easy as breathing, but torture was a skill.

Openly weeping with pained breaths, it was as sweet as honey, better than birdsong. Feigning disinterest, he leaned onto one foot. With every shift, she clung religiously.

"Anything…anything….anything…" she kept whispering incessantly.

"Cease your whining!" he snapped, and she immediately obeyed.

Lifting her grieved head, she had a faint glimmer of hope in her swollen, red eyes. Tear trails on her cheeks with unkempt blonde locks, it meant a great deal to him that he had the privilege of destroying her splendor—that he got to rip her wings off.

"I will consider sparing Kenobi from ending his last days as a cripple _if_ ," he proposed cruelly.

All ears, she nodded her head vigorously, not even considering what horror he had in store.

He grinned at her naivety, knowing he could ask her to do anything and she would comply. For a minute, he wondered if he should give her a knife and ask to have her cut her own fingers off, one by one, but that would make her cries all the more annoying.

Plus, he liked having her as an intact trophy, something he could lord over for the rest of his reign. More savage kings than he had far more extensive prizes, it was only proper that he should have at least one.

He had to think of something that was both humiliating and domineering without resorting to trivial bloodshed. He rather liked keeping her untouched physically while the Jedi received the opposite—an appalling dualism that mocked her pacifism.

Face and body as tight as a drum, she waited for his offer.

" _If_ ," he continued. "You make it worth my while."

Confused, she didn't know how she could pay him anything, there was nothing left to give of herself. Or so she thought.

Bestial grin, he was only too happy to explain.

"One kiss."

Shock did not begin to describe her emotions. What game was he playing at? It was so unlike anything that she had yet to experience from the Dathomirian, it hadn't even been on her radar. One hundred lashes, a century of jeers and kicks to the stomach, acid burns or brands were far more appealing.

He was a coward, but a perceiving one. He knew that her dignity was her most treasured asset. It was something that could endure the storms of bodily pain, for dignity and martyrdom went hand-in-hand. Subtly was the game—little actions that eroded her self-worth like waves against mountains.

"You're running out of time, Satine."

She flinched again at the sound of her name coming out of his putrid mouth. Seconds were wasting, the clock was betraying her, and she knew if she did not agree, Obi would be chopped into bits. It seemed like a no brainer, but her pride howled with stubbornness.

"Thirty seconds before your precious Obi-wan becomes a _new_ man," he announced with a barbaric hoot.

The ticking seconds boomed like a bomb in her mind.

 _Twenty…fifteen…ten…_

She clenched her eyes shut, she denied everything. The thought of Obi being mangled mixed with the image of her in the arms of the Sith.

… _five…_

"Fine!"

Pleasantly surprised, he had begun to think that she had become far more selfish, but she was still the same uncompromising, myopic idealist.

"Was that so hard?" he asked with fake concern.

She said nothing.

Whisking out a hologram-communicator, he ordered Savage to return. His apprentice had been within seconds of knocking down the Jedi's cell door.

Numb and limp, the fingers that had held onto his legs dropped, she stared without seeing, barely listened to the Sith issue the command.

The translucent Savage flickered off, and Maul turned his steely attention to the woman at his feet.

Paralyzed, she had no idea what to do, how to move, how to think. It was as if she had spent hours in the tundra, all feeling vanished.

"Perhaps I should reconsider…" he insinuated pitilessly.

A burst of strength detonated from her toes to her head and she leapt up, bangles clanging, skirt undulating. Amazon, she gave him an equally fiery glance, and crushed her sorrowful lips against his cracked ones.

Taken off-guard, he could not let her win the battle. Talon fingers, he cupped the back of her head and drew her harshly closer. Hands balled at her side, she allowed it, and tried to press down the blood rushing, to keep her skin cold.

With sharp teeth, he bit her lip, urging the red liquid to ooze. She felt it dribble down, and inhaled suddenly against her better judgment.

A deep growl resonated from within him, humming against her. At first the guilt was manageable, but it was budding into choking vines, worse than her collar. Opposites, he noted that she was as soft and vibrant as expected, better; whereas she could feel the splinters of his mouth, the horns were constantly in her vision, his sharp jaw bones pierced her.

Simply put, their faces did not belong together, like a square smashed into a circular hole. Worse, it was not even that it was bordering on heresy, but the fact that he did not seem to notice the wrongness. The thorn did not care if it destroyed the rose.

The gluttony was clear, the seething hate impaled her, overwhelming. Wanting to pull away from the first second, he was a barbwire noose—the more she tried to resist, the more entangled she became.

It was certain that his claws were puncturing her skull. His other hand came up to aid the brother, and wrapped itself around her neck.

Screaming internally, she understood firsthand what separated Jedi and Sith. It had always plagued her why the former could not seem to love back, she had waited, yearned, prayed for a day when Obi-wan would renounce his knighthood, but it never came.

She had thought that she wanted him to be more emotional, or at least more in tune with them.

Now she understood why he was so intent on detaching. If this was the result, she would gladly never see him again.

After Maul had his fill, which was measured in long, tedious minutes, he retracted his nails. The entire time she had her eyes closed, but out of instinct, she opened them.

Bad move.

His usual bloodshot whites and coal pupils dug into her hungrily. Foot caught in the steel jaws of a trap, she couldn't shake the stare. It consumed her sight, a never sleeping eye, a mushroom cloud midnight. Up close, it was far more intense, and she feared she had opened an unseen Pandora's Box that lurked within him.

It appeared that the rules no longer applied to him. The Sith Lords had turned their backs on him and, in return, he declared his own sovereignty, a hollow thing.

It was clear he was lashing out like a wounded animal, striking out at everything, trying to land a shot.

Perhaps this had been the reason behind the unorthodoxy. Or maybe physical pain no longer gave him that usual thrill—an evolving student, reaching further into the Darkside.

She had not noticed that he still clung onto her wrist, and the throb of his grasp began to vie for attention. It was the pinch that freed her from his imprisonment, and she peered down at his coiled hand which completely enveloped her forearm.

Black swirls decorated his ridged knuckles, swept across the back of his hand until it disappeared under the onyx sleeve. Then the corrupted stream of obsidian became deformed wings on his fingers, crooked stripes against a blood red flesh.

Intricate and lethal, as she gazed, he tightened into a crushing, gnarled fist. It was if she had gotten herself stuck in a vice, and she gasped out a groan, unable to repel a response.

Even though he reveled in the pain he was causing, his expression remained serious and grim. It wasn't enough; her agony would never be enough to satisfy him. A hit of a drug, he was becoming increasingly addicted to her torment.

There was an invulnerable link between her and the Jedi. Like twins, her pain was his. So, in a way, making her suffer was just as sweet, just as needed; however, there wasn't a pull to end her life like there was with Kenobi.

At first, she had been a nuisance and easily expendable. Now, things had changed.

A rough stone for a knife, she would always have a purpose to serve. Plus, as he thought before, all black market warlords needed symbols of power. What attested more to that fact than having the former ruler as one's slave?

The bones in her wrist were snapping, a resonating pop echoed.

The sound brought him out of his thoughts, and he threw her back like she was a leech. She was just happy to be out of his death-grip, and began to cradle her arm, grimaced.

Her blood still on his lips, his tongue protruded to lick it up. Rust and salt played on his palate.

Disgusted, she looked away.

At her reaction his usual sickening grin came back.

"We _must_ do this again sometime," he commented as if regarding the weather.

Her stomach dropped, face paled.

Chortling evilly, he turned briskly around and strode out the door, leaving her in ruins.

The only thing that could have made it better for him was if he had done it right in front of Kenobi. He stopped his pace in the middle of the corridor.

Why couldn't he?

* * *

 **A/N: Just so as not to cause confusion: This is not going to be a Maul/Satine pairing. Not the point of the chapter. Still completely Obi/Satine, but I like throwing monkey wrenches. :D**


	11. Regime

Grumbling awake, something was taking him out of unconsciousness. It wasn't himself; it wasn't the presence of another person in the pitch black room. It was nagging him like an invisible pinch that steadily became unbearable.

"Ah!"

When he sat up, he realized that the Force was charring his mind, encasing his senses. It was unbearable. He sprung up from his shadowed cot, and collapsed to the ground, cradling his head. Like an explosion, a gunshot, deafened ears, his blood thundered.

One word could sum it up: _Fear._

It was a detonating horror which made the hairs on his body stand in unison, at attention. It was one of the most overpowering feelings he had ever encountered, and it encroached upon him, virus. In response, his own heartbeat fluttered, his flesh went clammy and cold.

Closing his eyes, Obi-wan steadied himself—it wasn't his terror.

 _Not mine. Not mine._

Whose was it then?

It was clear that he was well connected to this person, or else he wouldn't notice, so the only logical conclusion was…

"Satine," he whispered.

Instantly, he stood, ignoring the migraine, the sting of the air against his cheeks, his jaw, and his entire body really.

Limping to the door, he leaned heavily against it, knowing he could never get closer than this. Centering himself, he concentrated on the paralyzing fear, tried to submerge and find a reason for it. A growing part of his brain worried—she might be dying.

The larger, Jedi side retorted that if that was the case, the fright would be lessening as her life force slipped away, not increasing.

It showed no signs of fading.

Detaching from the physical, from his body, he waited for the stoic Force to reveal itself. Without realizing, he sat upon the ground, legs crossed in the familiar position.

For what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, he remained still in soul and mind. Then, completely removed from all sensation, he began seeing images.

Satine sat, keeled over, breathing hard, and whispering inaudible prayers. Suppressing his desire to jump into action, he waited for more information. It came seconds later, when Maul came into view. Compassion was replaced by a rising fury; it threatened to ruin his concentration. Steady, he watched as passively as he could as the Sith engulfed the Duchess, and all went black.

But the Force was not finished.

It continued.

New, strange pictures emerged. Straining to understand, he recognized colors of red and blue clashing against one another in an eternal dance. Then, a flash of white broke through the fight, separating the two.

Divided against their will, the opposing colors converged on one another once again, destroying the white, and their battle became far more ruthless. In the beginning, it seemed relatively equal with one sometimes having predominance and sometimes becoming the minority.

However, the red was now threatening to swallow the blue. By the end of the vision, only a speck of it remained. Everything went dark.

Coming back into himself, he pondered what he had seen, foreboding.

Satine was certainly in trouble, but it was more of a S.O.S. than anything. She knew better than to give into any strong feeling with Sith around. Hell, she made damn well sure to keep her emotions blocked from him at all times since the war began.

Despite himself, he gave a smirk, reminiscing about their days spent in a cave, barely surviving but truly living.

Shaking his head, he returned to mulling over the other aspects of the revelation. Clearly, the red and blue represented the Jedi and the Sith. He was concerned that the Darkside had been on equal standing, but he supposed that was the nature of things—yin and yang.

The white was far more perplexing. What was this third party? Moreover, it was clear that after its appearance, the Sith would practically wipe out the Jedi.

He had had prophecies before, but none of this kind of importance. It was even more imperative that he return to the Temple, to his masters.

Frustration built. He longed to blast through these petty panels and make one of his grand escapes, he knew he could do it, but it left Satine to the wolves.

He couldn't ignore the fact that she was in terrible danger. He couldn't be sure, but there was an off-ness to Maul that was becoming a larger problem.

More than a few times over, the Duchess should have died by his double-edged, glowing red blade. Obi could not deny this.

Why did the Sith keep her alive? Was there a larger plan at work? There was no way she would buy him any headway with his former Lords.

All of his past action suggested that he should have murdered her from the offset. So what was this new strategy? Was he simply trying to drive the Jedi insane with worry?

Probably, and it was working relatively well so far. Nonetheless, there was an evolution in the making, and his feelings told him that rescuing Satine was of first importance, even though his mind, his training demanded otherwise.

It had been only a day, maybe a day and a half, and his patience, his calm was withering away like sand in the wind. He should have expected it—similar feelings always appeared with the former Duchess involved.

Like an impossible itch, a puzzle left unsolved, a missing piece, he couldn't shake the image of Satine out of his head. She was afraid, humiliated, on the verge of disaster, and what was he doing? Sitting here, pondering vacantly. Boiling, the pull to act was steaming under his skin.

He had to expunge it. So, he began pacing furiously, ignoring the spongy kneecaps. Around and around he went, no solution in sight. Each path led to turmoil—he would not leave here without her, which meant that he had to defeat Maul, which was practically impossible at this point.

The incorrigible Sith was a watchdog on steroids. Not to mention an entire legion of belligerent Death Watch soldiers also stood in his way, as well as the brutish Savage.

Groaning, he felt his way to the bed and sat on it with a depressed huff. What could he do but wait for death?

His noble spirit was waning, he had to do something!

Stereotypical prisoner, he laid upon the floor, elbows perpendicular, and began doing pushups. Doing one set was agony, so he settled for crunches. Impatient, he wished he could repair himself over night, could snap his fingers and be back to his normal, athletic self.

Mindlessly, the endorphins began to ease his fluttering, scattered mind. In the moment he only focused on his breath, on his back pushing off the ground, of the crunch of his abdomen, and the repetition. It was obvious that he had a nasty shiner, throbbing as blood rushed in and out of his head.

 _Pain is universal…pain is universal…just a scratch…_ he chanted to himself.

The minutes became hours, his body was covered in sweat. When splatters of salty water began splashing back up at him, he stopped his wild workout. It was probably unwise to have done such a thing when he still hadn't received a meal, but it had accomplished the task of steadying his nerves.

Weary, he tore a small piece, or what he thought was small, of his ragged tunic and searched for the water bucket. He was getting accustomed to his pitch black den, and found the wooden thing easily. It had not fallen over once since his stay. Dipping the cloth, he wiped his face, exhausted. He would be sore tomorrow.

Crawling into the thin bed, he turned and faced the unseen wall that brushed against his legs. The heartache became a dull pang, and he fell fast asleep.

* * *

Eager, Maul counted the days until he could truly enrage the Jedi. It wasn't enough to destroy him physically and mentally, but he sorely wished to see the self-righteous Obi stumble, to give into his demons.

He was positive that the Duchess would be the last straw. Yet, he was patient, for he wanted Kenobi nice and weak before he made his display of power. It had been a week since he had last seen his prized prisoner. After all, black markets didn't just create themselves; he had more important things to attend to.

There were threats to be issued, shady alliances to be made, and double-crosses to plan. The Death Watch acted as a ruthless police force—arresting any potential foe, keeping the people terrified and homebound, out of the way while gangsters ascended.

Arms of all sorts were shipped in, traffickers were welcomed with open arms, Mandalore would soon be a hive of scum and villainy unparalleled.

Of courses, miniature crises would pop up: a petty revolt would need to be crushed, a challenging competitor capped, and of course the usual worthless reprimands of the Senate.

Neutral in name only, it was a perfect, momentary disguise. Moreover, the more he became entrenched within the underground, the harder it would be to resist his empire. Everyone in the Republic had a price—only a few idealists remained, too small to be of any threat.

Even the oh-so honorable Obi-wan had one.

Once in a while he would spot a monitor that was trained on the Jedi's cell. A grin would light up his devilish face, for Kenobi was going insane. No amount of meditation could save him from the reality of his predicament.

The Duchess was doing her job; his nemesis could never retain concentration. Maul saw it. The bearded man would sit, close his eyes, breathe, and then give up a moment later. He would walk around the room in frenzy, but true love was inescapable—like a terminal diagnosis.

He wished he could sit and watch all day, his sadistic itch begging to be scratched.

But he would remind himself that the best was yet to come, he only need another week or so until his harvest was ready to be reaped. Pondering what else he had to do for the day as he walked down the familiar corridor toward the throne room from his own quarters, he noted that he was passing a certain Duchess's panels.

She had an even busier schedule of remaining by his side at all times, especially during official meetings which took place in less conspicuous places—Maul did not trust the Death Watch as far as he could throw them, after all.

Everyone certainly got a hoot out of seeing her in her present condition. More aggressive clientele, usually of the Hutt variety, would get a bit too hand-sy for his tastes, trying to snag a piece of her hair, or caressing her while his back was turned.

Of course, reprimands would have to be made. Not a few of his partners lost their hands. It had the dual effect of making her a symbol and bolstering his bloodthirsty reputation. It was also a lovely way to end negotiations. Snatching her restraints he would turn his back and leave the room, Savage chuckling as he followed after, screams like victorious trumpets.

Now she was waiting by the usual place, the throne, watched over by his apprentice and Drack. The first days, she had a proud expression, spine straight, chin lifted. It had taken a few stinging slaps to knock some respect into her thick skull.

But with each passing day, with each embarrassment, each hit, she learned her place.

Happily, he noticed how she had that glazed expression, shoulders hunched, usually staring at the ground. Whenever he raised his hand, she cringed, well-oiled to his whims.

A few times he had to actually remind her to show her pretty face to the guests. Hollowly, like a windup doll, she would comply without thinking, without any emotion. The aggression that was tangible at first was decaying into profound apathy.

And, just to top it off, every night he would force himself upon her at the door, her personal escort. Only a single kiss, but it was so much more. Her lips and neck testified to his intensity, and were constantly raw and bloody, punctures visible either from his teeth or nails.

Scratches marred her collarbone, stretching around her throat, but he had no intention of letting up. In fact, it was practice. Soon, he would put on the quintessential performance.

He could taste the sorrow of Obi-wan, could imagine as his bright blue eyes alighted with hatred and then descended into earthshattering despair.

With a smirk he approached the panels to the throne.

Walking regally through the opening doors, the room went dead silent. Thick curtains had been made to cover the obscene windows, creating a perpetual dimness. Any pathetic icon made in the image of the Duchess had been burned, replaced with stained, black and red, tattered banners.

Murmuring had been buzzing but then ceased, he saw Satine visibly leap in fright from her seated position on the filthy marble.

 _Delicious…_ he thought, giddy.

"Sit down," he snapped without looking and she sank down, her skirts creating a burgundy ring, like a wilting rose. Per usual, Savage could barely keep his bark of laughter in as he stood at the right hand of the faded cathedra, Maul appraised him with an approving glance. His ruthlessness was coming along nicely.

Drack was stone cold, for he truly despised the woman he stood next to, but Maul sensed he had a deep pleasure at seeing her this way.

The Sith had a few more meetings, formalities more than anything, and he would be all that much closer to the establishment of his criminal empire.

Death Watch sentries saluted as he passed, but he paid them no mind as he glided up the steps.

Sitting with a flourish, he absently reached out and traced the former Duchess's cheek with a cruelly sharpened nail. He knew he broke skin when she winced, another brand to add to the collection. Kenobi would be spitting fire when he saw her—he would surely fall from his conceited pedestal.

Crossing his legs, Maul had never felt more than alive as he looked upon his weeding regime.


	12. Circus

**A/N: Here's a large update for ya~ Enjoy! :)**

* * *

"Fifty-six…fifty-seven…" came the grunts.

Pushing off the ground, his conditioning was coming along nicely. He would be able to walk with confidence when next Maul summoned him. Squats were still frustratingly difficult—his knees were the worst off, as expected.

Nevertheless, he always tried to at least get to five repetitions each day. It was slow, but it was progress. After day three, the jailers finally started feeding him, although it was scant. They actually walked his meal in, knowing the light was unbearable. It was always at seemingly random hours. One time he actually stepped in his glop, unaware they had brought it in while he slept.

The workouts had the effect of knocking him out religiously. After all, it was all he could do during the lonely hours. Meditation had become too tedious, too still. The budding turbulence brewing in his chest grew each day. It was worse than a cage, for in a cage one is forced to sit, to remain in one place, there is no space to fidget, to pace.

It was worse than prison, for at least there it hummed with the life force of many others, there was not the absolute stillness, the impossible quiet, and the aggravating dark that drove him further over the edge into the void of insanity.

His mind made no illusions; he had no alien whispers, no mirages, only the image of Satine haunting his thoughts every hour of the day. He could not shake the fear of her eyes, could not wipe away the visage of her hunched back as she prayed for help.

 _For me..._

A fresh wave of guilt pushed him to increase his pace, to ignore the groaning of his muscles as he propelled himself up and down, up and down.

Her face, her face! It seared his soul—it left no part of his cranium untouched.

Too quick, too reckless, he slipped and crashed to the invisible floor. Slamming his fist down, he lowered his head. It had been weeks probably, and his hair proved it. Ringlets tickled down, his enlarging beard swayed against his collarbone.

Taking a breath, pushing Satine down the gullet, into the subconscious, he pulled himself to his knees and stood. Bare-chested yet with the same ragged, and ever rank, pants he knew he still had a few more hours before sleep would come.

Grumbling, he pondered whether he could even attempt meditation.

Sighing, cynical, he crossed his weary legs into a sit, laying his jittery arms against his thighs, and closed his eyes. Sweat still dribbled as he took large inhales and exhales.

Blessedly blank, he was able to get to the ledge, the pause right before complete concentration. Then, as always, she struck.

Like a gun-shot through the skull, like a comet across the sky, she was triggered. He could not hold her in the depths of his brain, she broke free and, before he knew it, he was recalling her laugh. In the days before she had been a politician, it had been so loose and easy. She would throw her head back sometimes or maybe crumple in a flurry of giggles.

How he adored that! A deep yearning blustered forth, and then was replaced by the contrast of her terror. It was the difference between a vibrant, spring day and a moonless, starless midnight or a blood-red, war-marred sky. Remorse, the weight of responsibility fell pitilessly upon his withered shoulders once more.

Leaping from his spot, he began pacing like he always did when this happened. It was sorely tempting to overturn the room, destroy anything in range, but it would only hurt himself, would not prove anything to his warden.

But, then again…

He had not used the Force, under the pretense that doing so would only earn more suffering for him and the Duchess, yet it was rusting his skill going without it for so long. Forget his physical condition, what about his spiritual?

Rebellious, he focused his energy on the cot. He felt it as it lifted, sensed its movement in the Force, but it was wavering. Reflective of his internal state, he lost control after only a few seconds.

"Dammit!" he growled and began marching around again.

The barrage sounded:

 _How could you let her do this to you?_

 _Didn't you always know that you would have to let her go one day?_

 _What kind of Jedi are you?_

 _Even Anakin hides it better!_

 _Detach, detach! Before it's too late!_

 _Isn't this how Sith are created?_

"But I love her!" he countered bitterly, hating himself.

Three decades of training bit back:

 _One must separate from worldly desires, from all Attachments, in order to understand and use the Force properly._

 _Emotions, desires, are limitations, controls that keep one from freedom, from becoming Jedi._

 _If one does not detach from these controls, whether benign or not, it keeps one from seeing clearly, from discerning right and wrong action._

 _Therefore,_

 _Love leads to hate._

 _Love leads to envy._

 _Love leads to deceit._

 _Love leads to the Darkside._

"Yes, yes, I know!" he snarled, clutching his head. "But I can't help it!"

He had been raised in this; this had been his whole life. It was being destroyed, deconstructed, the mental anguish was unbearable. What was true? What was good? Was it synonymous with Jedi?

 _Just let go._

"No!" he cried and then fell to his knees.

 _Let go._

He shook his head.

 _Let go._

The same two words pounded, gonged incessantly. He held on by fingernails. How could this feeling be wrong? Perhaps if he had been here in Mandalore by her side, had given up his knighthood, he could have gotten Satine to safety.

Moreover, if he hadn't been a Padawan in the first place, he wouldn't have incurred the wrath of Maul, right?

The sequence of events that had formed his life, which used to seem preordained, which he used to accept with calm spirit and mind, now appeared to betray him. Did he ever have a choice?

Of course, admitting this only increased the shame. Was this what Qui-Gon Jinn wanted for his pupil?

Two paths, both of which were rooted in a profound love, lay before him. Make no mistake, the Jedi order was his family, it fulfilled his life purpose. Yet, there was now a question of faith.

Would the Jedi save him this time? What if they didn't?

The knee-jerk reaction reminded him that this was part of the oath they had all taken. This was war, sometimes soldiers were left behind.

But would he spend his last days stuck in a tug-of-war between principle and reality?

He took a look at the facts:

Satine was here, now. She was in grave danger. He was in the same boat.

He loved her, this could not be denied, could not be philosophized away.

Maul, an arch enemy, showed no signs of loosening his grasp on the planet or either of them.

He knew before coming that the Senate would never invade a neutral system—which Mandalore still claimed to be. The Jedi would not disobey the Republic.

Anakin may have devised a plan, but after Obi-wan's escape, security would be tight. Of course, that wouldn't stop his Padawan, but it would delay him.

Plus, a strategy, or even an attempt did not secure freedom for all. Anakin would be inclined to leave the Duchess, an impossible concession.

He would not leave her here.

He also could not depend on Maul's patience. The Sith was dangerously temperamental, if his long-suffering sadism dried up, Obi was certainly doomed.

Death could come tomorrow or in years.

This brought up another question.

If it leaned toward the latter, could he stave off complete and utter insanity? The war may end, but Obi did not believe that Maul would relinquish his power, unless a better offer came along. If that happened, an even worse future may await the Jedi.

Stroking out the tangles in his dirtying beard, he was faced with a quandary of mind and heart.

Keep to the Jedi path, accept that death is nigh, accept that Satine will never escape alive, and pass on in indifferent dignity. Perhaps liberation will come, perhaps not.

Or, follow his foolhardy heart and fight tooth and nail, try and save Satine till his last breath, and if the Jedi do not accept him back after his actions…so be it. Of course, this could end just the same as option one, just in a different, more dramatic fashion.

If it did, at least he could say that he did not die in callousness; that he had truly loved and had been loved once. That he had found a soulmate in this infinite universe.

Every irrational instinct tugged toward the latter choice, an unfamiliar route.

Biting his cheek, furrowing his brow, he was at an impasse.

However, before he could form a more extensive pro-con list with adjoining contemplation, the panels whisked open, letting a sight-shattering illumination in.

Gasping in pain, he cringed backward, covering his face. His hands did no justice, for the stinging rays still peeked mercilessly through the finger slits.

"How ironic," an evilly familiar voice commented. "A Jedi who despises light."

Quick-witted still, an encouraging sign, Obi-wan retorted:

"How predictable," he imitated with a smirk. "A Sith too gutless to show his face."

Instantly, the wind was knocked out of him, he was slung sideways, landing on his shoulder. Worse than the pain was the fact that he had held his sheltering hand out to break his fall, and he was exposed viciously to the smoldering brightness.

He swore loudly and scrambled to keep his face in the shadows.

"Language, Kenobi," Maul chided. "Does that worthless Yoda let you wield a lightsaber with that mouth?"

Obi coughed out a laugh, cradling his face.

"He does as long as I keep cutting off Sith heads with it or, in your case, legs."

Low blow, a palpable fury exploded from the Dathomirian, reverberating in the Force like full moon high-tides.

"I think that tongue has outlived its usefulness."

Stripped away from the protecting dark, his retinas charred. Strong hands pulled him. They yanked his arms behind his back, and he was unable to take shelter from the ruthless glare. He closed his eyes, but it still burned through.

Delving into his senses, even out of practice and spirit, he was able to have a rough sketch of the surroundings.

He was expecting a fast and merciless response to his comment, but nothing came. Maul's anger remained, but he didn't seem to be acting on it. Suspicious, Kenobi supposed that he was waiting for something, or that he had a better reprimand than broken bones.

The group began to lumber out, and although Kenobi could walk, he could not find his footing in his temporary blindness, and stumbled along.

Brain aching from the switch from extreme dark to light, it nonetheless began processing. With each step, colors began to register on the back of his eyelids. At first it had painful blotches of white, but then reds and yellows formulated.

Satine was not here; her pure essence could not be detected. He didn't know whether to be relieved or worried.

It felt as if they walked miles in tedious, tense silence. Only loud, booming footsteps resonated. Finally, they halted, and it took the combined efforts of the sentries to keep him from tumbling.

With a shove, he was sent flying, and landed roughly on a soft surface. Stroking, it felt like carpet, or maybe a rug.

No words were given, but he heard the swoosh of door panels. Confused, he was not back in his original quarters, the radiance still engulfed his sight. It would be an odd torture chamber, upholsteries were not the norm.

Standing, he began reaching out, trying to see with his fingers. It was rather barren: a usual cot, no bucket. He supposed this was not to be permanent. He pondered why they even bothered.

Hours passed, his vision began improving. Now he could see blobs, a wide array of browns and tan with blocs of steel gray.

It was far homier than his last cell. He supposed he was quite near the throne room, in some faraway wing of the palace. Throughout, he had not been able to find Satine, her feelings remained hidden, the Force was quiet.

An ominous omen, indeed.

* * *

Beaten to the core, she sat, hands on her lap. Sitting on her legs, she was getting used to the numb throb of staying in one position for too long. She was beginning to memorize every detail of the lieutenant Drack's leg armor plates as he stood stubbornly next to her.

Once she had even tried to analyze Savage, who was to her immediate right. But he had caught her stare and the resulting leer was enough to keep her from ever looking in his direction again. Head bowed, she contented herself with counting the number of scuffs on Drack, for there were quite a few—attesting to his belligerency…and his winning record.

To be specific, he had a total of fifty that she could see. There may be even more, but his right side was facing away, in profile. She supposed he had noticed her absent study, but he took no interest, although sometimes he spoke with body language.

On rougher, more stressful days he would break rank and saunter over to talk to Savage or another Death Watch soldier while Maul was away. This would snap her count, and she would have to start all over once he returned.

During such moments as these, she let her mourning mind wander toward the two men in her life. How different they were.

A sick irony, she had wanted her first kiss with a wielder of the Force to obviously be Obi-wan, but this had not been the case.

Maul wouldn't let her forget it. He sealed the end of every day with the same, and her broken, crumbling lips were constant reminders.

The awfulness of his emerging empire was beyond expression. She had seen much, had been witness to the unimaginable suffering that was on the horizon—in disbelief that intelligent beings could willingly cause such things. Were they born without consciences?

She shuddered to think what exactly had caused these people to descend into the void. Question of philosophy, was evil born or made?

The Sith, surprisingly, was more open about his past than the lot of them. He made it no secret. It was deranged, but linear thinking was at least present. It was simply a personal vendetta, nothing more.

Perhaps that was why it was so infuriating.

Analyzing her painted hands, she wondered what lay before her today, something was surely going down, some highly anticipated event.

Every few days she was given the privilege to wash off the accumulating dirt.

Today had been that day, and she felt a little better with combed hair, which now was down passed her shoulders.

But that was not the odd part.

For some foreboding reason, her captors had increased her wardrobe and accessory collection twentyfold.

Before where she had two bangles, now she had a dozen. From the top of her shoulder down to the bend in the elbow rested six armlets, her ankles jangled noisily. Rings were also thrown in and it was expected, at least for today, that she wear all ten.

They had never been her style, so it was odd trying to figure out which band went with each finger. Then there were the new bracelets which had replaced the restraining cuffs, the long, layered necklaces, and an official piercer, with nothing more than a sharpened, sterile pin, came in and added four more holes to each ear and plugged them with opulent loops. A hairstylist, who she couldn't believe existed, gave her an elegant style, with half of her hair falling down in waves with the rest tied in a bun.

They speared garnet sticks through the bun, and she was sure they put at least eight in. It appeared as though she had rays of red sprouting from the back of her head, halo.

It fit the usual Sith coloring, with each trinket being a mix of ruby, silver, obsidian, and dull gold.

Even more surprising, they had put on makeup! She had gotten a good glimpse before they finished, and it was certainly dramatic. An obsession with black—onyx liner, thick lashes, it appeared almost tribal with three streaks extending from the corner of her eyes, halfway to her hairline.

The best part was that they loosened her leather collar by one notch, which was exponentially better. She imagined that the skin underneath was swollen and red, so they painted over it with more foundation.

Unfortunately they left her lips alone, probably on Maul's orders, and they continued stinging, dry and split—a natural crimson. Her skin was already pale, but they went a shade lighter to overemphasize the black, not anything like Queen Amidala, but nevertheless striking.

It surprised her, when she finally left preparation, how heavy everything had become.

Whereas her walk had been silent, now she was a walking cymbal.

They blessedly hadn't changed her outfit, although she pondered if they had thrown a slapdash of glitter on it.

Drack escorted her to the usual place, making no remark, but she thought she heard a few low whistles and cat-calls resound from the lined guard as she made her entrance.

Dropping her off, she routinely sat, a disc of skirt surrounding her in a flourish. She waited, for Maul was not yet present.

Her Sith slave master had been gone for sometime. It was curious, for he never let her have more than ten minutes of peace, unless she was asleep—and today seemed to be especially significant.

As if on cue, he entered, and she sighed heavily. Of course he hadn't been miraculously killed by a lightning bolt…it had been foolish to think that any divine intervention was coming to emancipate her.

In the usual onyx garb, he had only included a flowing, formal cloak, leaving the hood unfurled. His loose, high-necked tunic tucked into an identical-colored belt, while his equally baggy pants were stuffed into the familiar combat boots. His dual lightsabers, black and red, hung darkly on his belt, a misleading speck of silver. Nothing in his gait suggested that he was half robot underneath.

As always when he entered the area became a graveyard, a frightened shush. Only a few unfortunate Death Watch sentries had experienced his cruelty firsthand, having more to do with incompetence than anything. There were the womanizers, the back-door dealers, the trouble-starters; each would lose an appendage or his life for such things.

Not because Maul did not encourage such actions, but because the unfortunate souls had done it without his permission.

Soldiers who wanted to climb the ranks bowed low as their new leader passed, hoping he would notice their blind loyalty. He remained aloof, face straight ahead, his gnarled horns bobbing smoothly which each step.

Coming to the seat of power, he stopped short, right in front of Satine. Passive, she could not ignore his intentional stare. Without an order, she lifted her gaze.

Although her spirit hibernated, she could never rid herself of the fear whenever he focused on her. Those skewering yellow eyes that tore through skin and bone alike, she felt it blister through.

He appeared cool and collected, with only the usual ember of rage.

She swallowed thickly in response.

Judging, he was clearly assessing the work done. He did not reach out or check, but would sometimes flick his fingers, a silent command for her to move her head left, right, up, or down.

It was strange, but she prayed that he approved, for if he disliked anything, the stylists who had prepared her were headed to the chopping block...literally.

After a few more minutes, he gave a neutral nod. It would do.

With a grimaced grin, he continued on to his familiar position, arms crossed as he leaned against the back of the throne, waiting.

Finally, a formal group of Trade Federation representatives filtered in, hands crossed into their sleeves, their boxed, elegant headdresses did nothing to hide the greed in their large, bug-like eyes.

Now she understood why today had been so theatrical, so obviously important.

It was a well-known 'secret' that the Federation played for both teams, for anyone who offered a promising prospect. She wondered if they knew what they were getting into, making deals with Maul.

The obvious head of the party strode confidently in, knowing his wealth made him untouchable. Yet, his assistants were far more intimidated. They clung together, shoulder to shoulder, their sunken, sagged faces wary as they noted the large amount of Death Watch soldiers.

Like a tyrant, Maul made no attempt to meet them in the middle. He waited for them to make the arduous journey to the steps. When they were within the correct distance, he then stood, hands behind his back.

"Maul," the lead Neimoidian greeted.

"Lok Durd," he retorted coldly, it was well known Maul despised the race.

Although the viceroy did not appreciate the tone, he made no remark, but only narrowed his zig-zagged eyes.

"Why have you called us here?"

Now the Sith was beginning to get into his element and instead of rudely yanking her to her feet, he actually extended a hand. Seeing the threat on his expression if she did not perform well, she did not hesitate. It was nice to have free arms again, even if they were covered in ostentatious accessories.

Like some demented Darkside queen, the two went hand-in-hand down the steps. It seemed elegant, but his talons dug painfully into her knuckles.

Surprise was the first reaction, for the viceroy had not recognized her from far away.

"So it _is_ true!" Durd exclaimed, grey face paling further. "The Duchess is your puppet!"

A month ago she would ground him into dust, yelled until her hair turned blue, or made a devastatingly droll remark. Now, she remained silent, head lifted just enough for the newcomers to get a good look, eyes drawn.

Clearly impressed with her adornments, for Neimoidians adored pomp, the pact about to be made was well on its way.

She was just another tool in the Sith's belt, but one of growing importance.

"Shall we continue this discussion somewhere more private?" the trade Lord insinuated, his covetous gaze still set on her and her jewels.

Nodding shortly, Maul subtly looped her arm through his, pretending to be some sort of gentleman. No one noticed just how tightly he held on to her, how clenched his claws were, threatening to shred, as he led the delegation to the western wings.

Somewhere Obi-wan was sleeping, consumed in a dreamless slumber, completely unaware of the malevolent circus Maul was putting his beloved through, a tamed beast, a freak-show star, the main attraction.

They progressed slowly, opulently. Like a well-oiled machine, Death Watch patrols made their daily rounds, in perfect sequence. She wondered how she had been so obtuse, not even realizing just how much planning was put into this until it was already upon her.

Instead of the usual conferences areas, they went to a recognizable place: The gardens.

She couldn't believe that Maul hadn't destroyed it immediately. Perhaps he hadn't had the time.

On the same level as the throne room, it was far above the city, looking over it. The view was thankfully blocked, for all that was to see was bonfires and shattered lives below. In the open air, it nonetheless had retained its rejuvenating effect. Birds still chirped, bugs still buzzed, the sun sprinkled warm rays.

A flutter of happiness exploded in her. It had been her favorite, a great spot to get away, to think.

Neat but not trimmed, it was filled with twisting, blooming trees, budding, sky-blue flowers, a faint stream circled around, bubbling quaintly. In what seemed like ages, a small smile broke out despite the situation, she couldn't help it as she peered longingly at the surrounding beauty.

Breathing in the scent of vegetation, that pure, crisp fragrance, her worries eased like an ebbing tide. It would come back, as was its way, but for now it was partly absent.

A sharp pinch in her arm grounded her, for she had slowed subconsciously, wanting to take it all in. His head turned just enough so that the Neimoidians could not see his expression, but Maul was glaring murderously at her. Without words, it was clear he wanted her to keep her head down, an obedient dog.

Gulping, she had to force herself to swivel back to her humble posture.

The men did not appreciate the surroundings like her. It was just an aesthetic choice to them and nothing more.

In the middle of the courtyard sat simple stone benches, a perfect place to relax or have meaningful conversation.

Ruining it as always, it would be turned into a place of greed, of gluttony, cutthroat business.

She and Maul took the seats on the right, a cozier slab, which made wretched, painful butterflies detonate in her stomach. The visiting Federation delegates took the other two benches, one consumed entirely by Lok Durd's large frame.

She prepared herself for a long, arduous, and sometimes embarassing discussion but the Sith surprised her, and she should have seen through it.

Turning to her like he was more friend than enemy, she grew nervous.

"Why don't you entertain yourself in the garden," he said in a statement, an order.

Mildly shocked, she did not pause.

As she began to leave she heard:

"Don't go too far."

The lethal warning weaved into the words was transparent.

Twisting her head, she gave a meek nod over her shoulder.

Eyes on her back, she flitted gracefully down the thin trails, letting her fingers graze leaves and pedals.

It was a gift, and she foolishly believed that strings would not be attached. Nevertheless, she would not waste it. Hovering, dancing from plant to plant, bush to bush, she strode gently in circles around miniature forest. Unshakable joy would glitter in her chest when a bird would hop closer to her, or when a ladybug landed on her painted skin.

The soft soil against her toes was lovely, but she also adored to sit amongst the vines, on rocky ledges, letting the branches caress her. She soaked in the sunlight as it faded into dusk. Mournfully, she watched as the light gave way to dark. She wished she could stay out here forever.

Maul would probably be finishing by now.

Careful to remember the way back, she sighed and started to make her return. A candle of contentment flickered within, she cherished it, tears welling, though she swatted any stray drops.

Feeling a bit like her old self, she also had a fleeting sentiment of freedom. A girl again, she had a pliable step, fluid. Although dressed darkly, her movements were the opposite, the flowing skirt billowed behind her. Ballet steps, she tip-toed her way closer, cheeks slightly flushed.

They still deliberated. She hoped they had not seen her as she crept up, but Maul's advantage was unfair. A sixth sense, he immediately spotted her as she hid partly behind foliage.

No words, he crooked a single, sharp finger.

Tamed, she flitted gracefully over. The difference was noticed. Maul cocked a brow while a few Neimoidian jaws hung open. Sitting with style, she took her seat daintily. She did not know what had come over her, she supposed the fresh air had done her good, revitalizing.

"Glad you could join us," Maul announced sarcastically, even though some of the visitors nodded their heads sincerely. "But I think we're done here. Isn't that right, gentlemen?"

Grunts of affirmation hummed in response.

Again, he made a show of asking for her hand as the event concluded.

His fake facade was so unfair, there weren't words. But she swallowed her annoyance, instead deciding on the last good memory she would probably ever have. Accepting the bestial palm, he once again tucked her arm under his.

The return trip was uneventful. Lok Durd shook Maul's free hand, and he left in the same way he came.

Waiting until the Neimoidians were out of ear shot, the Sith tightened his grip and began dragging her. So much for propriety.

"How I _loathe_ them," he growled with a disgusted expression. "So weak-willed and unworthy of my services. But their day will come soon enough. I have foreseen their extinction."

Violence had always been detestable to her, and the image of an entire people, no matter how greedy, destroyed greatly grieved her heart.

 _Children, mothers, fathers..._ was all that she could think of as she tried to keep up with him.

Maul snorted callously.

"Destroy the root, destroy the weed."

She let out a gasp of horror. How did he know that she was thinking that?

Halting his mad pace, he pivoted slowly, a malevolent grin spreading like cancer.

"Oh yes," he replied to her unsaid anxiety. "I've been in your mind for some time now. It wasn't hard. You leave yourself far too vulnerable."

Eyes wide, what else had he heard?

"Enough," he said mysteriously, his gaze becoming a full-fledged leer.

Still untrained, in denial, she couldn't help but think:

 _How will I escape now?_

Rage charred his eyes for a moment, but was soon replaced by a cruel, resonating laugh.

"That's just the thing, Satine. You won't."


	13. Haystack

**A/N: So sorry for the late update and misspelling Anakin this whole time! I hope I caught all the errors throughout the chapters, but if you find any other ones, please tell me! :) Thanks for keeping me sharp!~ Also...probably bumping this to M. What do you think?**

* * *

That night, she had torn out all her atrocious decorations. In a spirit of rage, the arduous process only kept her angry. At one point she prayed for a scissor, so she could just cut off all the tangles the sticks had created in her hair.

Did they use permanent paints? It felt as if she was scrubbing off her entire first-layer of skin as she continually washed her face.

The aching bite of Maul still played on her lips—her face became a permanent glare. There weren't enough swears in the book to define him. She didn't care if he heard her! He was…he was…

Swiping at the water in the sink, she sprayed the wall with muddied makeup liquid.

 _Asshole!_ she thought pathetically.

It took at least forty-five minutes to return back to a blank canvas. Stripping, she tossed the clothes away, not caring that they would look crumpled tomorrow. Throwing on a loose nightshirt, she jumped into bed and swaddled herself in the sheets, creating an impenetrable cocoon.

But that only made it worse. The irony snapped its jaws.

Swatting the comforters, she leapt back out and decided to walk out her worries. She paced around the room.

She actually missed jail.

The jewels, the semblances, it was all so fake and wrong! Yet this was only a drop in the bucket compared to what Maul had just revealed.

 _He knows…he knows everything!_

Laid bare, it was horrifying. All her yearnings, all her sorrows and pains, and all her wishful, childish thinking…he knew it all! Shivering, he probably even knew about how she felt about Obi. It wasn't like it was a secret, but even the Jedi himself didn't know the depths of her affections.

And she hadn't even noticed, hadn't even raised an alarm. Was she so weak-minded? Did this mean he would start playing gruesome tricks?

Running a hand through her lank hair, the agitation was beginning to take control—which only made her more afraid that he was listening in right now, had sensed her increasing anxiety. What was the range on telekinesis?

Did it fade if she was far away, or would there always be a link between them? She certainly had no inkling of what he was thinking or feeling below that murderous gaze.

Then there was the added bonus of never being able to have an element of surprise. Any reconnaissance or planning or anything even related to freedom had been chucked out the window.

She hated feeling so helpless, like some sort of damsel. The situation had been increasingly difficult with only a sprinkle of worthless hope. Now it was flat impossible.

Then it hit her like a freight train, like a headshot.

She paused and sat dully on the floor.

He was right. She would never escape.

She let it sink in.

 _Never. Escape._

 _Never. Escape._

 _Never. Escape._

It had been a month. Just a single month. How many months did she have left?

Hundreds.

Thousands of days.

Short-sighted, she realized that Maul truly intended to have her spend the rest of her life here.

Panic.

Not thinking, driven by a gut reaction, she scoured the area for anything sharp. She would not die as a slave, she would not die as an old woman still paraded by a decrepit Sith Lord, or be a casualty when his reign ended, become someone else's spoil.

Frenzied, she spotted the gleaming ruby chopsticks that sat at the edge of the bathroom counter. She bolted for them. No time to waste, no regrets to consider, she pushed Obi away.

The pointed ends were probably too dull to get the job done quickly, so she sharpened it with the other chopsticks against the sink. Tiny metal scraps cascaded to the ground as she whittled. After a few minutes, she pricked her finger with the result and was greeted with a trifling blotch of red.

She supposed it would do, though it didn't seem likely to get the job done.

With a trembling fist she held it at her chest, pressing it against the flesh. The thin cloth ripped in response, a painful prick escalated as she put more pressure on it.

A quick inhale, she begged forgiveness for what she was about to do, and prayed that Obi-wan somehow survived this ordeal.

Elbows cocked, she closed her eyes and pushed with all her might.

A white-hot flash of pain resulted, but it was not enough. Perhaps it had gotten just under the skin, yet would go no further.

With a cry she yanked the blasted thing out, and threw it away. Examining how much damage she had caused, she hoped she had hit an artery at least. Unfortunately, it was only a gash, bleeding frugally, but nothing life threatening.

New ideas cropped up.

Bash her head in? Even she doubted her resolve for something like that.

Hang herself with sheets? There was nothing to hook it on. She supposed the banister of the bed frame could be used, but it was unlikely to succeed.

Then the simplest one emerged: Enrage Maul.

It would be hilariously easy, but there was the problem of Obi-wan. He may never kill her, may never strike her down, but he would slowly torture the Jedi right in front of her eyes.

Giving up, she leaned against the wall, barely noticing the pain under her collarbone or the footsteps in the hallway. She cradled her head in her arms and began to weep. She did not even lift her head when the panels snapped open and the Sith himself strode in.

He took a glance at the discarded stick and snorted.

"Pathetic," he chided, strolling over to pick it up.

 _Of course he would say that,_ she thought miserably.

"Well I don't know what else you expected, Duchess," he said callously, responding eerily to her thought. "I would think by now you should know _exactly_ what I would say."

It took a great deal of strength not to think of terrible, but apt, names to call him.

 _No place to hide,_ jolted to the front of her brain regardless of her struggle to stifle her reflexive musing.

In response, he gave a cold bark of laughter and went to stand in front of her.

"As if there ever was!" he hooted from above.

Sighing deeply into her chest, she then lifted her chin onto her arms, which were wrapped around her knees. Her eyes were swollen, there was nothing she could do about that, but she still tried to conceal the self-made wound. The adrenaline was wearing thin, and it began to sting painfully. But by now, she had had worse.

As if innocent, she peered childishly up at him. It was obvious he wasn't buying it at all, his stare was perceiving.

"Let me see," he finally ordered.

Disappointed in how far she had fallen, she unfurled herself, sat cross-legged, and turned her head to the right.

Squatting to her level, he tugged the collar of the shirt down and put a gloved hand to the gash on her collarbone, stretching the skin to get a better look.

She didn't watch his face, knowing it would be its usual mix of permanent anger and woodenness. As he probed, she clenched her fists, for the wound was really starting to ache the more he toyed with it.

She tilted her head enough to get a glance at what he was doing.

He was concentrating carefully, apparently he had found something. She didn't ask.

"I don't think I gave you enough credit, girl," he growled as he leaned in closer, squinting his eyes. "Somehow you managed to get a splinter lodged just below a vein."

A flutter of pride sparkled in her chest.

"Yes, I'm sure you're very proud of yourself," he snapped.

He leaned back and ripped his gloves off. Then, he bent in close, his knobbed head inches from her chin.

"Don't move."

Stretching the skin again, he apparently found the splinter. Without warning he dug his long, sharp nails into the gash and yanked the small, glimmering thing out. The smirk on her face disappeared as she gasped.

It began to bleed.

A part of her wanted to let it flow. Maul groaned, annoyed.

"Must I do everything?" he exclaimed, keen to her impulses.

He put his gnarled paw over the torn flesh, applying pressure. She had wished she had done it herself, now that his hand was pushed firmly against her chest. A flicker of anxiety puckered in her stomach. Images cascaded in her mind despite herself as the two of them waited for the oozing to cease.

As they did, he snapped his stare to her, an odd look in his eyes.

 _Stop, stop, stop, stop..._ she chanted.

But things only seemed to get worse, his stare was almost glazing over as he plunged into her brainwaves.

 _Get a grip! Think of anything else! Anything!_

It only descended into worse territory, his countenance came back to reality, and his glare bored into her, she couldn't break away from it. Why was her mind and body betraying her like this? Could she trust nothing? Not even herself?

A last-ditch effort, she stamped the fire out, though it tried to spring back up. With a flurry of jumbled feelings, she clung to a single image, and forced it to fill her mind. It was Obi, as she remembered him most fondly: No beard, almost a boy, with his Padawan braid and tan face, a testament to being in the elements so long with her.

He was laughing, and his eyes were bright against the backdrop of a cave wall.

They would never again be so vibrant, not after...

"I see..." Maul observed, a smile playing on his lips. "Losing his precious Master took quite a toll out of our friend. How delightful."

Guilt slammed into her, and she washed Obi-wan's giggling face away.

She should have just stewed in her own embarrassment rather than have betrayed Obi like this. Intentional or not, she could not be so weak around the Sith and his ever probing senses. But she had no training, no strategy to curb that. If Maul was in her head, was it possible to dislodge him?

"I wish I had been there to see it," he continued. "Though I suppose your rendition will do."

A few more seconds passed awkwardly.

Finally, the blood clotted. Maul lifted his striped hand, and took a gander. A large blotch of red had stained the nightshirt, but nothing else seemed noteworthy.

He then leaned back onto his toes, and took to studying her. She could see the cogs grinding in his head.

Eyes wide, she wondered what horrible idea he was conjuring.

"I'm pondering whether I should punish you or the Jedi for your actions tonight," he responded, and it seemed to her that all of their conversations would now revolve around answering her unspoken thoughts and feelings.

He shrugged.

"It's much more efficient and I don't have to listen to you speak," he noted rudely. "Win-win."

She sighed, hating that she had to sit here and take his comments so docilely.

"You'd be _lucky_ to get just that," he snarled, infuriated. "Would you rather I slice your arm off? Perhaps I could let you sleep with the guards from now on, or maybe I'll try to _recreate_ some of those images that you so graciously provided in your mind tonight."

She gulped, somehow he always managed to find a way to realize her worst fears.

"Yes!" he hissed, teeth exposed like a snake. "I know _exactly_ what you fear the most. You can try and suppress your thoughts, but your feelings will always betray you. I knew what you were planning to do tonight before you even did. I'm five steps ahead of you, Satine, so trust me when I say, you will always be _mine_."

 _No!_ she thought, and then kicked herself for it.

A spectrum of emotions ranging from anger to murderous anger flicked across the Sith's face, he raised a hand. Then, oddly, he went still. She had screwed her face up, waiting for the blow, but now she saw as the light-bulb went off in his head.

"It appears you need to be reminded of this fact, Duchess," he said, and then called for a soldier who awaited behind the door.

Drack sauntered in, taking an uninterested note in the profuse amount of blood covering Satine.

"Your knife please, lieutenant," Maul ordered, reaching out his hand.

Immediately, Drack unsheathed a menacing looking blade that could have hardly been called a knife.

Satine was not foolish enough to stand idly by at that point, and made a break for it. In a flash, the Death Watch soldier was upon her, holding her by the shoulders, forcing her back to the ground, against the wall.

Fingering the dagger, Maul barely noticed.

"The Jedi may have your heart, Duchess," he stated nonchalantly and then he, too, was upon her, the knife at the top of her forehead.

As she felt the prick, she thrashed and yelped, but Drack held her in an iron grip. Then, her flailing ceased, and she realized that Maul had forced her still, though the lieutenant remained in position, watching eagerly.

The Sith leaned in close.

"But I have your body."

* * *

Obi-wan's eyesight finally returned, much to its chagrin. It wasn't as sharp as normal, but it was serviceable. He had been correct about the room—it was something of a broom closet with the added bonus of a rug.

It was a serious improvement, nonetheless, one that would probably only last tonight.

However, the elephant in the room was: Why did Maul send him here of all places? Scavenging about, there was nothing else to really discover. Dust mites and stains were the closest things to clues, and he strained to remember the route they had taken—his senses had been so clouded.

Yet now, away from the engulfing dark, his head began to calm, his mind became clear. How foolish of him to fall for Maul's tricks, to let the deep shadows blind him. Certainly he felt something for the Duchess, but it was only _natural_ that he should. It did not have to ruin him.

What a difference light made.

A pang of disbelief resounded within, but he took a breath and suppressed it.

"If I give in now, the Sith will surely win…" he mumbled to himself. "I must let go of Satine if either of us are to survive."

Although the words spewing out seemed true, in the deep recesses of his core they were the opposite—lies. The hours waiting for his vision to return had revealed something else besides sight.

He had become attached—the gravest of all Jedi sins.

Nevertheless, he had no choice but to set that problem aside for another day, another fight. His focus had to be on escape, and quick. The more he was left to the torments of his own mind, the more Satine would destroy him. She was a beautiful rose with the deadliest of thorns, waiting for him to be lured into disaster.

Gulping his frustration, his mind pounded as he went through every conceivable plan. This may be his only chance.

He assumed Maul had something in store, a spectacle of power or whatnot. The Sith's overconfidence was always his downfall, but he was far more clever than when the two last met.

And far more bloodthirsty…if that were possible.

The Jedi did not know where he was, but if he could find a point of reference, an inkling from the mind of a nearby guard, it would be vital to his schemes.

Searching the Force with the most concentration he had had in weeks, he probed the surrounding area. It was vacant at first, but then Obi-wan stumbled upon a rookie—a fledgling guard, just out of training. His anxiety was bubbling; Kenobi could practically see the butterflies in the young man's stomach.

It appeared odd that they had left a boy to guard the infamous Jedi, something was certainly fishy about it. Then again, it could be that Maul was entertaining someone else, and had miscalculated Obi-wan's strength. It wasn't a likely answer, but it nonetheless made him feel all the more obliged to escape immediately.

The risk he was taking with Satine was terrifying, and his heart squeezed when he imagined the recompense that would take place should he be caught, but he could wait for Anakin, or any help for that matter, no longer.

He took a breath and gathered his focus, a new drive emerged within. Sitting cross-legged, he surrounded the boy's mind, creeping up on it like a dense fog. Then, before the lad could notice, Obi-wan struck. Smashing past the brain's defenses like a knife through butter, he had the boy under his influence in seconds.

"You will unlock the door," the Jedi spoke, increasing his hold as he did.

Even without seeing, he could tell the youngster was helpless against the Force. As the boy reached for his key and began to walk toward the door, Obi closed his eyes and concentrated solely on his victim.

The closer the soldier got to the lock, the more his mind tried to fight, pushing against its captor, all to no avail.

The footsteps grew closer, Obi-wan could hear them from behind the panel. The key card was tight in the boy's fist as he waved it over the sensor. Cogs clicked. The gate opened.

As soon as the air hit his face, Obi-wan coiled and sprung at the soldier, knocking him noiselessly to the ground, his hand over the masked forehead. Terror filled the boy's body and then evaporated as he was knocked unconscious by the Jedi.

"Good man," Obi murmured, snatching onto the guard's legs.

He dragged him inside and kept his senses sharp. There wasn't a soul in the hallways. His instincts screamed "Trap!" but he ignored them. Searching the Death Watchman's pockets, he snagged a blaster and the key card. He wasn't sure if it opened anything else besides his room, but he might as well try and spring Satine while he was out and about.

Without another delay he sprinted out, his feet as silent as the grave.

His radar was on red-alert, he listened intensely for incoming footsteps, for hushed voices. Nothing.

It surely was a trap, and there was nothing he could do about it. Maul wanted him to play this game, that much was certain, but it was also an opportunity. Of course it was a slim to none chance, yet one nonetheless. Changing strategy, he turned his attention toward finding Satine.

He recollected his vision, trying to identify the markers. She had sat in a hallway that looked remarkably like this one. It was dim, with gray paneling and muddied floors. Was Maul foolish enough to have put them in the same wing? He stopped cold in his tracks, darting around a corner as he did.

That was the trap, he realized, leaning against the wall.

 _Maul wants me to make a rescue attempt. He's probably waiting with her right now._

Frustration abounded.

If he found her, he would find Maul, which was not necessarily a bad thing. More than anything Obi-wan wanted to end his nemesis once and for all. Part of him, a darker part, wanted to do it slowly and painfully. Yet, he had no lightsaber, no clue as to where Satine actually was in this labyrinth, and Maul was never going to fight fair, his boorish brother was probably lurking close by, not to mention a squadron of Death Watch.

But, if he escaped by himself now, Maul knew it would haunt him for the rest of his life. Even if he made it out and went to the Council, help was surely going to come too late or not at all. The Jedi made it clear the last time about how they viewed the situation. Plus, he was probably going to get excommunicated for disobeying orders.

It would take an army of Jedi to lay siege to this place, forces that could not be spared for a neutral, albeit only in name, planet.

The odds were hopelessly stacked against him...still.

Two choices. Which one was right? Would the Jedi ignore him like last time after knowing what he and Satine both went through? Would they help?

Could the Duchess survive long enough?

Could he even escape right now, or was it all smoke and mirrors to make him think that he could?

Giving a silent groan, he ground his teeth together as he sank to the floor, arms crossed. There was no good option.

He couldn't just sit here forever.

It hit him then.

 _What if I refuse to play the game at all?_

Smiling impishly, he sprung up onto his feet artfully, and began looking for something else altogether. He found it, and his grin grew wider. Above his head was a vent. At that moment, it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

Gripping it with the Force, he wrenched it open as quietly as he could and leapt straight up into it, practically flying. Huddling in the vent shaft, he pulled the hanging grill back up, fastening it tightly. Maul had expected him to choose, thinking he would only see two options, but he had discovered a third. Unfortunately for him, Maul had gambled too much.

By trying to corner Obi-wan, he had let him disappear and turn the tables. Now Maul would be the unsure one. The Jedi scrambled down the metal tunnels, becoming a needle in a haystack.


	14. Rules

**Thanks for the reviews! :) Enjoy the chapter~ *waggles eyebrows* muahaha.**

* * *

Maul did not leave that night.

Instead of parting after the ordeal, he stayed, obviously waiting for something. Satine had only been able to remain awake for a few more hours, her body aching, her face stinging and swollen. The last image before her maimed eyelids fluttered shut was the Sith, looking intensely back and forth between her and the doorway.

As her conscious mind faded blissfully into deep midnight she heard:

"Find him."

The door panels whisked open and shut with a glimmer of cold air and she fell over. She had not moved away from the wall, too petrified, agonized, and traumatized to even blink. Sinking slowly, she collapsed with a deep sigh, her wild hair covering her face.

Pain seemed permanently etched into her brow, but eased the more she drifted into dreams.

Maul watched her hungrily.

Tonight should have been the ultimate success. Yet the Jedi had not reacted as expected.

He had not taken the bait.

But Maul knew that he would never leave Satine either. He was certainly still in the palace.

The Sith supposed he should be more angry, but his ever calculating mind reveled in the new challenge, for the Jedi was not as beaten-down as originally believed. This would make for excellent sport.

Yes! The more he considered, the more he realized that it was one great game. Obi-wan would never stop trying to rescue his prized possession. Like a precious gem, her presence was intoxicating to him, his greed masked as petty love.

Maul's black-striped face cracked into a shattered grin, baring his teeth.

Opportunities abounded in pondering over how to catch the elusive Jedi; however, he had limited time. The next party of entrepreneurs was scheduled in a week. He would have to put Obi-wan back in his cage by then.

No one wants a Jedi on the loose, it would make for bad business.

Plus, this gave him even more time to synchronize himself to the Duchess. Parts of her feelings were still clouded. All of her defenses would have to be destroyed, for the Sith despised not being able to manipulate every facet of her being.

Just as she thought, there would be no place to hide, no safe corner of her mind and soul to flee to. Everywhere she went, she would bear his mark on her person, and everywhere her brain wandered, every crevice of her emotions, his presence would be there, waiting.

She would be his grandest accomplishment: complete manipulation. The Jedi played their tricks and his former Lords never had a taste for such things. They always preferred feats of physical power, but he would be the first to push the boundaries, to see how far he could inject himself into another living being, parasite.

Delicious, he realized that even if the Jedi managed to rescue the Duchess, she would never be the same. Like Kenobi, her pale blue eyes would dim into gray, the memories of this place and Maul forever branded on her skin and psyche.

A purring chuckle rumbled in his chest.

Completely unaware to the world, Satine slumbered on.

Then, she began to dream. Faint echoes trembled in the Force. Blurry images and muddied feelings illuminated from her mind. Curious, Maul pondered how far his power could extend. He had no previous knowledge of any Force-wielder that had successfully infiltrated someone's mind while they slept. The conscious was far easier to navigate.

Nevertheless, his arrogance goaded him to make an attempt.

Furling his legs, he closed his eyes and began the separation of body and soul. Like a possessing ghost, he took hold of her, making sure that she remained unaware. It would all go to rot if her mind suspected an unwelcome presence.

Drifting through brainwaves and their meager defenses, the swirling pictures began to take shape. He thought he saw a flash of light that almost resembled a lightsaber. Then again it could have been the moon. Flowers of all kinds began cropping up everywhere until he was completely engulfed in vegetation.

Suddenly, he was right there in the dream itself.

A pale silhouette, he saw her sitting by a small, glistening pool in the middle of a dense forest. The ground undulated like the sea, and sometimes the trees would switch places or disappear altogether, but Satine remained.

Getting closer, but still tentative to reveal himself, he then heard her start to sing. Enchanting, it was akin to birdsong, but it was no tune he recognized.

His pride doubled. He had done it! How did the Duchess rule so long in the first place? She had been positively pitiful against the sway of his power.

Now he was going to push his luck.

Snatching a nearby twig, one that couldn't seem to stay in one place, he snapped it loudly in half, eyes intent on her reaction. Immediately, the melody halted. Even he could sense the budding fear that built within the world she had created. Blooming roses and lilies began to wilt; their stalks began to take snake-like forms, thorns becoming fangs. The sky, which had been a pure magenta decayed into a foreboding gray, storm clouds appeared and crackled with splintered lightning.

It was all extremely fascinating, how little he had to do to corrupt a dream into a nightmare.

She had not turned around, but he could see her shoulders tense in anticipation, awaiting the chomp of a lurking beast.

He took it a step further.

Stepping away from the ever-darkening shadows, he crept loudly closer, his feet heavy and slow, yet poised. Like a stalking animal, he took his time approaching. With each step, the brightness lessened even more, until it was singularly concentrated on Satine, the last light in an encroaching fog.

Only a few feet from her, he could see her trembling, until at last she could bear it no longer and she whirled around to face her fear.

At that moment, he pounced, and the two of them tumbled to the ground. She had not been able to let out a scream, but he could see as clear as day the terror in her eyes, the realization that this wasn't a usual nightmare.

Before they could roll into the icy pool, the scene evaporated, and Maul was sent flying back to his body.

The first thing he heard was her gasp.

"Interesting," was what he murmured in response, opening his eyes gradually.

It was a bit of a shock being thrust back into the physical world, but was nothing that he couldn't handle.

An opposite reaction, she leapt away from him, standing on the other side of the room, the bed separating them. Her panicked breaths bordered on hyperventilation. He heaved a sigh at her hyperbole and stood to face her, pondering how long it would take for her to get a hold of herself.

"Don't come near me!" she cried, turned away from him, positively vibrating.

Ignoring her useless warning, he took a purposeful stride toward her.

Incensed, he had truly done it this time. There was only so much abuse she could take before she cracked, and this was the final straw. Was there nowhere to run? Nowhere free from his presence? Her thoughts and body were no longer hers. She had believed that there had been nothing else to take, she was exposed and exploited at all times.

Sleep was the last possible area of freedom, and most mornings she could barely remember her fading dreams, yet Maul still took them away from her. Breaking under the constant pressure, caught between the will to survive and the void of submission, she didn't know whether to keep fighting or to collapse under the weight of the Sith.

The previous weeks had favored the latter, but perhaps she could attempt one last try at preserving her dignity.

"Get away!" she snarled, a blind rage tainting her vision red.

Again, he flicked her comment away—another step. In response, she scrambled and backed herself into a corner.

An animal lashing out, her nostrils flared and she lifted her defiant head and glared at him with all the fury she could muster. The gashes on her cheeks only enhanced the ferocious glower.

One more fight.

"I swear by the gods I will kill you," she hissed as he advanced further.

Both were on the same side of the bed. The space in between them thinned. Although she knew there was nothing that could surprise him, she nevertheless began formulating plans, most of which centered on kneeing him in the stomach and running.

His face was oddly relaxed, for he knew that he needed to push no other buttons. He had hit his mark, her central nerve. Her fury had been suppressed for a month but had finally broke free. It couldn't have been better timing.

"Will you now?" he mused, crossing his foot over the other in a slow, sickly fashion.

He was less than a yard away.

"Yes!" she exclaimed, fists shaking at her sides. "You can torture me all you like, but you can't be in my head all the time! The second you let your guard down I'll—"

That was all the Sith could take. It had been amusing but, as always, the girl didn't know when to quit.

Lifting a bored hand, her voice was cut off as her throat enclosed on itself, crushed by the Force. Then, with a flick of the wrist, she was released. Collapsing like a petulant child, she fell against the mattress, clutching the covers.

"What am I going to do with you, Satine?" Maul asked, his voice feigning concern. "And to think that we had made all that progress. You had been _so_ obedient." He sat with a mocking sigh on the bed. "Perhaps I've allowed you too much freedom. Truly, this is my fault."

She wanted to yell at the top of her lungs and bash his head in with a crowbar.

 _Freedom?!_ she screamed in her head, enraged.

"Yes _freedom,_ " he snapped. "You're alive aren't you? You're fed and clothed, you have a _bed_. And all that I ask in return is that you uphold your end of the bargain—a bargain that _you_ offered, stupid girl."

He rose to his feet, and looked down at her, pitiless.

The stubborn anger that bristled began to soothe, transforming into the usual unease.

"I'm afraid I must enforce _yet another_ rule," he proposed, glee and fury sparkling on his countenance.

Gauging by the look in his eye, it wouldn't be a pleasant one.

"Starting immediately," he announced, his deep voice penetrated the air. "You will no longer be allowed to be alone at any time ever again."

She spluttered, unable to find words. What exactly did _that_ mean?

Trying to get to her feet, she slipped, for the feeling was lost in her legs.

"You can't…" she whispered.

 _He barely leaves my side as it is!_

"Of course I can!" he snarled. "See, that's the problem—you still believe that your opinions matter," with this he heaved her to a wobbly stand, bruising her upper arm.

 _This will make the game far more difficult, Kenobi. How will you save her now?_ Maul gloated to invisible foe, letting his arrogance permeate in the Force, knowing that the Jedi was listening in.

He began dragging her toward the door and then whistled sharply. Instantly, a crony entered and stood at attention.

Maul did not pause as he ordered:

"Get her things. Bring them to my quarters."

If Maul had wanted her to see reality, she was seeing it in twenty-twenty now. The solider was picking her courtroom clothes off the floor. He was putting anything else he deemed a "thing" into a bag, stuffing it.

"No!" she yelped and tugged uselessly against him, digging her feet into the carpet. "Let go!"

He stopped, and she thought he had actually listened.

Unfortunately, he only paused so he could spin around and backhand her. It rocked her bones.

His rough, parched, bony slap broke open the scabbing gashes, and the pain doubled. She felt as blood pooled in her mouth, forcing her to spit. She rose her free palm to her cheek instinctively. With blurry vision, she still could not give in now, the alternative was almost unbearable. But her head was fogged after the hit, and her face was sore and swollen from the previous night. As he began towing her again, she stumbled along, dazed.

"B-but I—" she stuttered as she and him went out the panels, her tongue thick in her mouth.

"Let's play a game, Satine," he interrupted, his vice grip unbreakable. "If you speak again, I'll cut your tongue out."

Angered, but not idiotic enough to test him on that threat, she swallowed heavily. Her arm felt as if it was slowly being torn from the socket. Every part of her body ached, there wasn't a spot of untouched skin left, it was all bruised and broken.

As her brain tried to un-jumble itself, her only thought was:

 _Where will I sleep?_

"Where do you think, fool?" he answered scathingly, his pace at breakneck speed now, her feet swept the ground.

 _The floor?_ she pondered, confused.

Surprisingly, he coughed a brittle chortle.

"If that were the case, I would save myself the trouble and put you in a cage. No, you'll be sleeping with me."

His comment flipped the lights back on her head and her heels dug into the ground.

 _This is not happening…I'm still in the nightmare. Wake up, Satine!_ she ordered herself, trying to clear the stars from her vision.

"Resist anymore and I'll chain you to the banister."

He took them quickly to the throne room and through the western side. The guard with the bag had caught up to them and was trailing from behind, though just beyond Maul's reach. He was a quick learner. If Maul's hold hadn't been so devastating, she would have collapsed several times now. As it was, she was barely holding on. It was like trying to clutch a wolf by the ears.

Not far now, her anxieties multiplied. Foremost on her mind was retaining a semblance of privacy.

She didn't even want to think about dressing in the morning. She looked down at her shabby, bloody shirt.

 _It's not so bad. I can wear this under my dress. Just need to cut off one sleeve and it's perfect,_ she bargained hopelessly.

"Don't be ridiculous," came his retort.

The door frames whisked open and then shut behind her. The closer they got, the more butterflies swarmed in her esophagus, trying to escape through her mouth. Saltwater conglomerated on her tongue.

"If you vomit on me, consider any and all privacy gone."

She swallowed her bile.

They passed the familiar portals, the silver-gray trims sparkled despite the dust. Then, everything became cleaner, or at least more opulent. She recognized the familiar area. This wing used to be filled with honored guests and respected ambassadors, peacemakers and compromisers.

Now it harbored the opposite.

Her own quarters were closest to the gardens, but she hardly expected Maul to sleep near something so pure and good.

Indeed, he swerved in the opposite direction, to the very end, the dead end, of the hallway—the last room on the right. It appeared normal enough, no shrunken or decapitated heads stood guard in front of it, but she was nonetheless expecting something worse coming from inside.

Maybe she was imagining things, but it was almost as if a dense fog was trying to escape from the slits.

Lifting his free hand, Maul waved it over the front, opening it with the Force. She looked for a sensor, but it had been ripped out, the wires hung broken and severed.

Now she understood. No one got in or out without using the Force. Which meant only three could gain access, two of which were Sith.

 _Great._

Entering, she still expected to see Sithian emblems and a closet full of black-hooded cloaks or Jedi lightsabers hanging morbidly as trophies. Instead, she got a completely unadorned room; a dark, midnight room that suppressed light. Concussed, the darkness worsened her stability, and she leaned heavily on Maul.

He flipped a switch with a flicker of his finger, but it was still incredibly dim. It appeared to be a large room, but nothing extravagant as far as she could tell. A rounded couch sat in the corner while the bed seemed to be through an entryway on the left.

Maul did not let go as he led her to the left, the soldier still following.

"Put it there," he barked over his shoulder to the guard.

Compliantly, he did so, dropping the light weight bag at the foot of the bed.

Some of her fears were lessened when she saw the size of the mattress. It was massive, so there didn't have to be any contact. Surely she could pretend that they weren't in the same bed, right?

When the Death Watch servant left, the Sith loosened his grip but still felt the need to haul her to an adjoining chamber, snatching her belongings as he went.

"Bathroom," he grunted, and then threw her and the bag in, shutting the gloomy door behind her. "Change. One minute."

Tripping over herself, she landed on all fours. Stars still glittered sporadically, her head felt like an ever-expanding balloon, but she could not waste time over self-pity.

Not to be told twice, she scavenged the sack, praying the guard had packed a clean shirt. Squinting, she realized he had, and she thanked the gods for it. Ripping off the old and tossing on the new, she had finished just in time. As soon as the cloth covered her body, the panels flew open.

Maul almost appeared disappointed that he hadn't been able to embarrass her in time. Even she was surprised at her speed, and she smirked gloatingly, stupidly. Growling, he motioned with his chin for her to follow. As she wobbled passed him, however, he snagged the back of her collar, and she lurched backward, almost falling onto her rear.

He made clucking sounds.

"On backwards."

Annoyed and tired she thought:

 _So?_

" _So_ ," he responded devilishly. "Fix it."

With an exacerbated sigh, she began to make her drunken way to the bathroom, only to be pulled backward again.

"You already used up your minute."

The vertigo was bad, but his sick sense of humor was worse.

 _Well how else am I supposed to_ _ **fix it**_ _?_ she thought lethargically.

All he gave her was a look.

Even in her discombobulated state, she saw the implication.

 _Hell. No!_ she seethed.

"If you don't do it, _I_ will."

Swears upon swears filtered through her mind.

"Language, Duchess."

 _Go fuc—_ she began, too woozy to sensor herself.

Without warning, he yanked the shirt over her head.

Instinctively, she covered herself against the biting air, but kept her glare intact. Not having her hands to hold herself steady, she swayed uneasily. Slowly, Maul flipped the shirt and pulled the sleeves out, his stare just as intense. Then, he held it out to her.

 _Of course…_

He smiled, clearly pleased with himself.

Making a decision, she relinquished her top hand and snatched the shirt as quick as she could, and retained her precarious stance. Maul gave a slight resistance, just enough to almost throw her completely off-balance again, but ultimately let go of it. She leaned against the wall, shoved the blasted thing on, and she crossed her arms self-consciously.

 _Happy?_

"Very much so."

Turning her face away, she swore under her breath.

"I thought I told you not to speak," came the instant rebuke.

Her face screwed up as if she had swallowed a lemon, but she didn't want to incur another hit to the head.

 _Sorry._

"Good girl."

She curled her toes into the carpet and chewed on her molars. Her glare was beginning to break the scabs on her face, and she had to force herself to ease up.

"This way," he ordered.

This time, she waited for him to go first, lest he find another reason to humiliate her. He led them back to the front area with the couch, and then turned sharply to face her, she teetered to a stop.

"I will be here. Try anything and I'll snap your leg in two," he said severely, making her feel as if the previous encounter was just a drop in the ocean.

He nodded knowingly in response to her feelings and then turned away and went to sit on the circular cushion. He sat in the familiar meditating position, but his eyes remained open and watchful, fixed on her.

"Go to bed," he barked, his piercing yellow irises glimmering in the gloom. "Do not leave that room until I command it. Understood?"

She gave a tight nod.

"Good. Now leave."

Turning on a heel she sauntered away, shoulders hunched, arms still wrapped around her waist. She chomped on her cheek as she approached the foot of the bed frame and pondered what side to take, the thing was like a separate room altogether. Covered in black covers with black sheets and black framing, she rolled her eyes at the predictability.

 _Which side?_ she contemplated, her eyelids heavy.

"Right," came Maul's throaty voice through the wall.

Sighing, she still had trouble with the complete invasion of privacy that was being inflicted on a regular basis. If she had been sold into slavery, at least she would have had the sanctuary of her mind still.

His voice echoed in her head:

" _Nowhere to hide."_

She shivered, but couldn't bring herself to approach the bed. It was as if there was a force-field surrounding it and if she crossed it, she would be obliterated.

"Ten seconds, Satine, unless you want _me_ to tuck you in."

The way he said it made the hair on the back of her neck stand. She decided she had endured enough punishment for one night, and climbed onto the monstrous thing without another objection. Plus, she was beginning to feel the wear and tear of the past few hours. Flicking the comforter out from under the untouched pillow, she wrapped herself in it, pulling it over her head.

Curled defensively, she squeezed her eyes shut, ignoring the resulting sting that sprung whenever she moved her face. Even though her mind buzzed with subtle panic, her body was exhausted. It eventually won the fight and she was out cold in the lion's den.


	15. Markings

Thankfully she had no dreams that night. It was a deep, dark knockout. Subconsciously, she was partially aware of the presence that slept next to her, though the engulfing black kept her safe for the time being.

Then, it was over too soon. It was difficult to tell the time of day anymore, for Maul despised windows and light. When she was in her previous room, a guard or Drack would pound on the door, jolting her awake.

However, it was a bit different with the Sith.

One moment she had been completely asleep, lost in the depths of slumber. The next, her eyes opened suddenly, as if coerced.

Groaning, she sat up, trying to shake the discomfort of being forced awake, it was an unnatural feeling, like being on the ocean floor just to be yanked to the heavens in a second.

Then, obtusely, she remembered she was not in the usual place. Looking numbly down at the sheets, she realized she was white-knuckling the black comforter. Instinctively, she recognized the atmosphere of early dawn with its hushed, snoozing aura. There was no rising sun seen, but the unnerving silence betrayed the hour.

Her blood began to pump loudly.

She felt his eyes on her.

Clearing her throat, she didn't know whether to turn and face him, remain still, or lay back down. He must of known her thought process, must have seen her anxiety, yet he ordered nothing, said nothing. It was clear he was leaving the choice to her, but with that came the unsaid threat of: _Choose wisely._

The morning was already getting off to a marvelous start.

Staying still seemed awkward, but it was also a safe bet. Laying back down was out of the question. But facing him? She wasn't sure. On the one hand, he might see it as an act of submission. On the other hand, he might think it too confident.

Gloomy, she concluded that there was no good option. Nothing would ever please him, nothing would keep him from inflicting more pain.

She had quite enough of it. The throb of her wounds was a constant white noise. She still felt the steel of the knife as it ripped up her face. At the memory, she shivered and brought her knees to her chest, her lower body still under the covers.

Sighing, she supposed she better acknowledge his presence…but perhaps not so boldly. Lowering her head, she tilted her head a little, peeking sheepishly at him.

Thankfully, he had not intruded on her space during the night, but he also wasn't as far away as she would have liked. Instead, he lay with an elbow propped in the middle of the bed. Whereas she was an inch from the end, the furthest she could be away without falling off.

She had been right, he had been staring.

Even when she met his gaze, he did not blink or acknowledge it. Like most men, he slept with his shirt off, and she could see the extent of his markings. It had been the first time she had seen the ones covering his neck, for he always wore the traditional, pharaoh-like, steely collar. It lay on a table across the room, along with his usual black attire and boots.

She heard the twitch of his metal feet as they rotated under the blanket, and she could just barely see a ringlet of metal that stretched to his abdomen, attesting to his robotic legs.

She waited with bated breath. It seemed she had made the correct decision, though she sighed internally, hating that she walked on permanent eggshells around the Sith. The slightest things set him off, while others did nothing. He was unpredictable, but it had to be on purpose, for it is impossible to outwit a lunatic, impossible to defeat a flickering shadow—method to madness.

On the flip side, the experience was somehow odd for him as well. Of course the entire charade with the Duchess was a power-play, a gambit, serving as irresistible bait. Nonetheless, sometimes even he had to appreciate the intricacy and peculiarity of his own schemes.

Obi-wan would be waiting for an opening, a single moment to snatch the girl out from under him. By keeping her close, impossibly close, he was betting that the Jedi would eventually reveal himself. It would be a foolish move.

But leave it to Kenobi to be a hopeless romantic, a poor Jedi. It was hilariously predictable.

The question at present dealt solely with time. Maul was positive that his nemesis would eventually come out of hiding, there wasn't any other option. But when? It would be highly inconvenient for him if Obi-wan sprung out of the ground during one of his many important consultations.

He snorted, the Jedi _would_ do that. He was the sorest of losers.

Nevertheless, the end result was the same: Kenobi in a cage, Satine in his bed, Mandalore under his foot.

The thought made giddy with eagerness, but he was a patient man, he would wait.

During this entire thought process, he never took his eyes off the Duchess. Meekly, she peered at him like a small child, waiting. He could sense her anticipation, her fear. Part of him wanted to give her a good fright and feel as her terror exploded.

But, they had spent enough time lying here uselessly. The day had dawned.

Then again, he supposed he should have a _bit_ of fun, while the opportunity was present.

Satine watched as a terrible smile grew on his face. Immediately she cringed, and tried to shift a little further away. She felt the air on her back, she was almost hanging off the side of the bed.

His expression was not a good one, and her heartrate ratcheted up, her palms became sweaty, her skin clammed. Although she knew he enjoyed making her squirm, she couldn't stop her body's natural flight/fight mechanism. It knew a threat when it saw one.

An unasked question formulated in her thoughts. What was he up to?

In response, he scooted closer, sitting up as he did so. Now she could see the metal waist and thighs exposed. It wasn't as if she had never seen a mechanical appendage, but the evil that was etched into the steel was obvious—dark magic.

It made her all the more alarmed. As if his flesh and blood wasn't terrible enough, he had invulnerable legs to boot!

Sensing her escalating panic, he knew it would only take a little push to send her into hysterics.

Would he ever get tired of her trepidation? It was so easy to encourage and so delicious to witness.

He lifted a finger and crooked it, trying to see if she would go against her instincts.

They were screaming at her to flee, like they always did. But her ever reasonable mind dully reminded her that doing so would only incur more pain. She was getting tired of being bruised and scratched and maimed.

In that moment, she realized her own weariness. The fight she had given the past two nights had taken much, she didn't know if she would be able to muster that much energy again.

Breaking spirit, she trembled as she slowly moved away from the edge. Filled with an odd sensation, for it was like deliberately walking into a meat grinder, she almost couldn't believe her own reaction.

 _I'm tired,_ she thought, understanding the truth in the words.

His grin grew wider. His bloodshot, jaundiced eyes shimmered with greed. His red and black face splintered as his skin creased.

Sadly, she finally reached him, shoulders deflated, face drawn like a thick, gray cloud passing over the sun. Though apathy began to numb her, the constant fear remained. She could not stop quivering.

It was the perfect sustenance for a Sith, who lived off fear and dread and pain, but the months of abuse were taking their toll. She was beginning to grow accustomed to the horror, the anxiety, but it never lessened. It was a perpetual companion.

As close as she could be without losing her sanity, she remembered that her shirt only went down to her knees, so she felt the chill of the metal pierce her skin. She shivered as goosebumps prickled.

Her feet were going numb from the cold, but her upper body throbbed. Just being in close proximity had a painful effect. He was the dichotomy of hot and cold—a demon on top, a soulless machine on the bottom.

At one point, he could not resist the opportunity to lightly scratch her collarbone, enjoying the simultaneous tremble when he did so.

The snarling beam had not left his countenance.

Without speaking, his hands cradled the sides of her face, his thumbs tracing the gashes he had created. His rough paws on her soft, though broken, skin sat in contrast to one another. It felt like sandpaper against her, but to him it was divine.

The calloused thumbs started from the top, and then passed methodically over her eyes, swirled on her cheekbones, and came together below her lower lip. The sensation was far from pleasant, but she knew if she cringed, she would have to deal with another concussion the rest of the day.

He went in circles, repeatedly tracing the grotesque patterns.

He had mirrored them after his own design:

One incision went down the middle, from the tip of the forehead down the bridge of the nose, creating diamond-like shapes as it went, stacked on each other. Next, slashes went straight down from under each eye and then zigzagged, running parallel with the bones in her face. Finally, a slit resembling a claw sat in the middle of her chin, breaking in two down her neck.

He had cut just deep enough that the pitiful scabs that were trying to form would never hold. The skin appeared to be flayed, the flesh curved out.

Each time his finger got too close, she would try her best not to flinch. Adrenaline had been saving her, as well as incomprehensible fear, but now the pain was blooming.

Yet, wearily, she waited for him to get his fill.

 _Tired,_ she thought again. It was her new mantra.

Then, an idea sprung in his head, and he sat back.

"You know," he growled quietly, and then took to playing with the Sith emblem clasped around her swan neck. "I think I'll add to the aesthetic."

With that, he sprung out of bed, his robotic legs spry. He was so quick that she could still feel his presence on her skin after he was gone. She sat passively and waited. Although self-loathing began to bite through the apathy, she couldn't get herself to act upon it.

He was back too quickly anyhow, not taking chances. In his hands were a jar of black liquid and a wooden stool.

"Heel," he patronized, smiling as he did.

Gently unfurling herself, she put her frostbitten toes on the carpeted ground and went to stand by him. After gorging himself on the brokenness of her spirit, he walked toward the adjacent washroom. She hadn't realized before, but a glimmering looking glass sat on the right.

He placed the wooden chair before it.

"Sit."

She did, and she saw her own reflection for the first time since he branded her. She wasn't particularly surprised, for she had felt him trace the patterns. Nevertheless, she wanted to sob when she saw it, so she looked down and decided to save herself the extra heartache.

"Face this way."

Maul knelt in front of her. A small paint-brush had appeared in his hand, already covered in the onyx goo.

It didn't take a genius to know what was coming.

 _Tired_ , she reminded herself.

Delighted by her response, he wasted no time.

"Don't move," he warned fiercely.

Starting just as he did with the knife, he carefully painted thin lines over the cuts. Instantly, tears welled in her eyes. It burned. It seared. It was tearing her skin off. There would only be a skull left, she was sure.

She clutched the edges of the seat so tightly that her knuckles began to pop.

In her mind, she pretended that she could thrash and scream, that she could fight. But in reality, all she did was widen her eyes and hold on for dear life.

Even that was too much for him.

"Close them," he snapped, annoyed by the crease that was forming on her brow. "But not too tightly."

She took to biting her cheek instead, chomping until the copper taste of blood flooded her gums. He was moving onto the chin, leaving a trail of scorched flesh behind. Though the brush was no longer in the wound, the paint singed.

She kept her lids shut firmly, not even opening them when he turned the stool around to face the mirror.

"Open."

A large, fiery part of her wanted to resist. She knew what it would look like. Why was he so intent on showing her? But, again, her sensible, worn brain chimed:

 _Tired._

So she wrenched her eyes open and was not disappointed. The only saving grace was that he didn't use broad strokes, only incredibly thin ones, right in the gaps of the incisions, though they were beginning to swell. Now the lines stood out all the more, and she resembled a Dathomirian sycophant.

If it hadn't been so vomit-inducing, she would have been surprised by his steady, artistic hand. He seemed to have had no trouble following the crude cuts with expert flourishes.

It made her wonder if he had done his own.

The dye still burned marvelously, and she winced, wanting desperately to cover her face.

 _What is it?_ she thought deliberately.

"The venom of a Pincerbug," he stated absently, snatching her chin and turning her head to get a closer look at his handiwork.

 _What's that?_

He made a face between a smirk and sneer.

"Permanent."

She swallowed slowly and repeated in her mind:

 _Permanent._

Though he had wanted at first to keep her relatively unexploited, he just couldn't resist the temptation to leave his mark. Wounds could be mended, scars covered up, but this? Nothing could remove that toxin from her skin. As they spoke, it was slowly seeping into the deepest layers of her flesh, destroying the cells.

That was the trick—it eviscerated the molecules, never allowing new ones to form.

Pleased by his skill, he let go, placed his hands behind his back, and cocked a grin.

"Yes, that will do."

* * *

 **A/N: Hello! I know I am running in circles with Maul and Satine, but I love the dichotomy between the two of them. With each dastardly act I hope that it will add to the drama (especially after this episode!), for it's not just Obi who's getting attached now, but Maul as well (though for VERY different reasons). Anyhoo, thanks as always for the support! Hope I do you proud as well as frustrate you!~ :D**


	16. Rumors

He had crawled for hours in the suffocating vents, avoiding fans and the glances of the guards below. The alarm had been sounded. He heard his name being shouted from underneath, from behind walls and doors, echoing back up at him.

"Maul's gonna kill me!" a squeaky voice wailed as it fretted to and fro, searching rooms up and down the hallway.

He heard as panels swooshed open. Kenobi peeked through an opening, his senses keen.

It was the young guard that had "let" him escape. He recognized his permeating dread, his inexperience was palpable.

If Obi-wan was honest, he was surprised that the Sith hadn't killed the boy already.

In fact, he was shocked.

The palace was buzzing, but it wasn't the warzone he had expected. He had assumed that the Sith brothers and their legion would be duck-marching, tearing down walls just to find the Jedi. Sure, there was a frightened kid and he noticed a few lines of Death Watch soldiers running, but not much else.

He wondered what Maul was up to. Did his enemy no longer care? The whole thing was anticlimactic and strange.

Sitting back against the searing metal of the vents, he felt purposeless. There was no chase. It was like the wolf had suddenly decided not to hunt, even though he was on the deer's heels.

 _Why? What does Maul know that I don't?_ he wondered, frustrated.

What was the point of skulking when there was no spotlight? Hadn't he just successfully broken out of prison? Where were the Rottweilers? Where was the warden?

Curious and blind, he decided to use the spare time to scope the place out some more. He had been scouting for hours, memorizing the passageways. It was simple and he had been here before, there wasn't much else to know.

The guards had a easy routine. They formed a cross in their marches, going from north to south and then east to west. The cross-section was the atrium, just outside the throne room doors.

Obi-wan sensed a peculiarity, there was more going on than what he saw. Perhaps he realized too late that behind the scene of weak, organized chaos was a far more sinister exchange.

It dawned on him that his first objective should not be avoiding detection, but finding Satine. And quick.

Maul would get him to play along yet. The trap was still sprung, waiting for the Jedi's foot.

It was a massive risk, for wherever she was, Maul was surely close by. The Sith's senses were sharp, sharper than before. Kenobi could feel his power growing, festering like a disease unnoticed until it was terminal.

He did not yet know the range, did not know what a safe distance was.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, interrupting the sweat stream.

For once he had an advantage, but he was still in a cage, though a far larger one.

Mustering his remaining strength, he plodded silently above the heads of his adversaries. Thankfully, the day was drawing to a close and the hot steel under his blistering skin was cooling with it. He could not stay in this blasted thing forever, there had to be an empty, forgotten room somewhere.

He had a rough idea of where she was, remembering vaguely that Maul had taken her to the east wing. Then again, he had been a bloody pulp at that time, so he wasn't sure if his memory was sound. But, he didn't have a better plan and made his way in that direction.

The tunnels zigzagged, it was increasingly difficult to remain on target. Whenever an opening presented itself, he would lean his head against it, hungrily looking out, trying to spot something.

The first couple times were met with ghostly quiet and shadows. He passed broom closets and cobwebs. If he and Satine ever escaped, he would give her hell for her decorating choices. It was impossible to tell one section from another!

He finally had to rest, the claustrophobic heat getting to him. He tiredly noted another grill, the stripes of light filtering into the dark, dusty vent. Taking a long breath, he waddled over to it and peered out.

It appeared to be yet another hallway, with the same trim and coloring.

But there was a small, subtle difference. Whereas the other places he scoped out had been as silent as the grave, there was faint murmuring reverberating from afar. A cautious optimism bubbled within and he waited, coiled.

The voices became louder.

He didn't breathe, didn't move. He sat on his toes and leaned eagerly forward, careful to keep his balance.

Finally, a pair of soldiers walked casually by.

It struck Obi-wan as odd. He knew Maul was arrogant, but this? He barely seemed to even care about the Jedi he proclaimed to loathe! By the Force, he had gone to considerable lengths to beat, belittle, and hogtie him, why the sudden cavalier approach?

Suppressing his frustration at not being in on the secret, he listened closely to their conversation.

"Did you see it?" the one on the left asked, barely disguising his boyish intrigue.

"No, but I heard about it from Kelean," his partner said with a gossipy tone which echoed behind his black and red helmet.

It was clear that one was a much higher rank than the other, whose armor was still unadorned—he hadn't earned his stripes, literally.

He guessed that placed the decorated guard a few ranks below the lieutenant. Officer maybe?

They were walking slowly. Obi-wan hoped they would reveal something before they were out of earshot.

"Well? What'd he say?" the inquiring trainee was practically hopping.

The other one laughed, showing his veteran smugness.

"Calm down, Rinx! I'm gettin' to it," he assured.

Then, he stopped and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, and looked both ways cautiously, adding to the drama. They were almost around the corner, and the Jedi knight strained to hear.

"Well, Kelean told me that he had been assigned to Drack that night. Told me he was expecting something big before it even happened. Course I told him he was nuts, but shows what I know," he rambled, though the youngling was on the edge of his seat, leaning in.

"Anyway, I didn't really give two shits about it until Kel came running in like an idiot, going on about what he saw," the officer continued, obviously trying to keep his young ward riveted. "Had to sit him down just so he would talk straight."

Kenobi rolled his eyes.

 _Soldiers…_

"When I finally got him to spit it out slow, that's when he told me."

Barely keeping it in, the rookie squeaked:

"Yeah?"

Even though he couldn't see their faces behind the blaster-masks, he was positive that the veteran was smirking, pleased with his storytelling.

"Now, this stays between you and me, kid," he cautioned absurdly, leaning in close. "But Kel tells me that Maul ripped the peace-loving Duchess's face clean off!"

"No!" the Jedi whispered as the younger soldier gasped, saying:

"I thought he had the hots for her!"

His superior gave a booming laugh.

"A Sith?!" he gave another chuckle and sighed. "Boy, you've got a lot to learn. Sith don't care about women or loot! Nah, they're vicious sons-a-bitches. They're just in it for the blood."

"Damn…" Rinx said, shaking his head. "You sure Kel's tellin' the truth? Did he see it?"

At this the officer became angry.

"Course he is! You callin' him and me liars?!"

"No, I was just wonderin'…I mean, why now?"

The major shrugged and began to walk again, the trainee following close.

"Guess he just got tired of looking at her…"

Obi sat back, deflated. The soldier believed he was telling the truth, the Jedi could sense no deceit reverberating from his words.

 _It can't be…_

Resolve burst forth.

 _No! It's just a rumor. She's fine. I would have sensed..._

The hallway went quiet again. Now it became even more crucial to find her. His patience thinned exponentially, and he kicked the grill and burst through the vent. He landed softly on the ground, but had no time to appreciate the coolness of the air or the luxury of being able to stand tall. He started sprinting, making sure to remember the way back.

His instincts had not failed him, this was surely the west wing.

Springing, limber and agile, he ran foolishly. His stomach grumbled quietly, his muscles were weak, but he persisted. Trusting his gut, he turned corners at breakneck speed and waited for a tremor in the Force to tell him when to stop, where to go.

It came suddenly, like going headlong into a brick wall. He stood right in front of a set of locked panels. A dark presence emanated from within. There had been much suffering here, a tangible pain. He waved a purposeful hand over the sensors. Obediently, the door opened.

The sensation became stronger as he stepped over the threshold. Maul had been here recently, too recently for Kenobi's tastes. Like a slime trail of a slug, Obi could still feel the mercilessness of the Sith, a blemish upon the room.

He flipped a switch, the panels shut behind him.

The first thing he saw was a blood stain, right next to him by his right foot. He leaned down and put his hand on it. It wasn't very much, but enough to make his heart ache. He knew the only way to know the truth would be to meditate upon it, to try and coax a vision from this place.

It was strong with the Force. He would have no trouble connecting, but did he want to? Did he want to know what had happened here? If what the guard said was true, could he stomach watching it?

Strained, he decided the truth must be found.

So he sat, right next to what he assumed was her blood. Resigned, he closed his eyes and let the Force tell him the story.

As expected the vision was clear.

He had been right about the sorrow of this place. Flickering images revealed her terrible story. It wasn't linear, but her feelings left strong imprints.

In detached horror, he watched as Maul beat her, watched her humiliation. But worst of all, he saw as Drack handed the Sith a barbarous blade while Satine cowered against the very wall he now sat next to, held down. He saw Maul's hungry face, saw his grin as he twirled the knife in his hand. He heard as the Dathomirian said:

" _The Jedi may have your heart, Duchess."_

Then, he pounced upon her, the razorblade at her hairline.

" _But I have your body."_

Before he could witness the inevitable, the vision ceased.

Obi-wan could not help the quivering of his body, could not stop the rage and anger and pain that struggled to break free.

 _What had Maul done?_

He disbelieved very much that the Sith cut it all off, that was probably just a rumor, but there was no doubt that he had done something unthinkable. Satine's pain drew Obi-wan like a magnet. He had to find her. He had to.

But the timing was wrong…

He only had one chance, a single moment. What he needed most desperately was a diversion—something that would assuredly coax Maul away from the Duchess.

He grumbled.

 _I need Anakin._

But how could he get a message out? Surely they Jedi Council knew he was in trouble. He hadn't been back for a month!

That fact began to grow on him.

A month away from the battlefield.

 _I've abandoned them…_ he accused himself. _All for her._

God, he really was attached.

He put his face in his hands.

 _What am I going to do?_

* * *

Rumors spread like wildfire throughout the palace. The one espoused by the two guards that Kenobi eavesdropped on became tame in comparison with the others.

The cook said that he hadn't just cut her face off, but that he had eaten it! And now he had supernatural powers!

Another soldier said, "No, no, no. That's not right! He didn't do any of that! What he really did was chop her head off! Yup, I bet ya that he'll be wearin' it around his neck when we see him today!"

His comrade snorted.

"You're an idiot. He didn't do shit. He probably just gave her a good beatin' and she'll just have a bad shiner."

"Ah, you're no fun!"

"Did you hear her screams, man?! She's dead! No doubt about it."

"Face-skin gives you powers! Everyone knows that!"

These were only a few.

However, back in reality, Satine was putting on the usual garment, with the usual bangles, but not in a usual way.

Maul liked the minute rule, knowing he would get a peek before she could finish on time. Nevertheless, she tried her best to dress quickly.

She dug the clothes out, took a second to make sure they weren't inside out, and began shoving and pulling them on.

 _Go…go…go…go!_ she chanted, ignoring the bite of the venom on her face as she whirled.

She was just about to yank her skirts up when the door snapped open. Instantly, she finished, though she was sure he had seen something, the yellow eyes shimmered lustfully in the dark. All that was left were the arm and ankle bracelets, which she went down to pick up but then stopped. She peered at him, not sure what to do.

Slowly, methodically, he strode in and held his hand out.

She supposed he wanted the honor. Sheepishly, she gave the tinkling things to him, hoping that he hadn't wanted something else.

She breathed a sigh of relief when he accepted them and nodded at her.

They were becoming more in tune, she raised her bare arm in front of her chest. One by one, he clipped the metal bands on, fastening them just where he liked them. Then he motioned to the chair that still sat in front of the mirror.

Obediently, she plopped upon it. He only had the anklet left. He gave her a look and she carefully lifted her delicate leg. Getting onto one knee, he slipped it on over her foot, and then stood.

She remembered the chains were in the bag, and Maul did not forget. Snatching them out, she had her hands ready for them before he could ask. A smirk played on his lips as he attached them as well. Per usual, he snatched the shackles up, but only held them loosely as he escorted them out of the room.

It was odd leaving, like walking out of a nightmare just to wake up in a new one.

At least it was familiar.

Unlike Drack, who wanted to rid himself of her as quick as he could, Maul walked slowly, leisurely—the perk of being the Duke. They did not talk, but she was sure he was probing her mind, waiting to respond to a random thought.

The morning had kept her busy, she had not been thinking of anything. But in the silence of the corridor, now that she was looking at a long, terrible day, for it would be horrible, she instinctively thought of the gardens outside. The images of blooming flowers and trees always soothed her worried soul.

"Perhaps we may visit them today," he said in his wispy voice, practically growling. "But only if you behave."

She saw right through the offer. It was another string attached, another attempt at trying to break her. There was a knife behind his unusually honeyed words.

It was working.

She had had such little happiness, she almost couldn't remember the feeling. That day when Trade Federation came seemed like a lifetime ago.

Unquestionably, Maul would accompany her there too, but it was a small price to pay.

The day was looking up, even if it was microscopic. But she was learning to appreciate the rare instances of mediocrity.

He felt the resolve rise in her—more than any other time since she had been here, she wanted to please Maul.

He walked into the throne room with a leer.


	17. Memories

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :D I love reading your lovely thoughts!**

That day she sat as she always had, hands in her lap.

When she had first walked in, the lined guards had murmured, a minor uproar.

"Told you!" one whispered loudly.

Passively she watched as money was exchanged grudgingly—some of the soldiers had lost bets. Unsure, she could probably guess what they had gambled on, though she did not want to think on it for long.

When the noise escalated a notch, Maul whipped his head around, grin gone.

That shut them up, and the ambiance went silent once more.

He turned his horned head around, leading her silently to the familiar place.

Yet, there was something odd about approaching the spot from this perspective. Did she take her place after Maul or before? She waited for his cue.

His rotten smile returned.

Like an emperor of old, he sat upon the throne first. She stood facing him, blocking his view, but was unwilling to move without consent.

Instead of an order, he dropped the shackles from his claw.

He was testing her, that much was clear. The tantalizing reward of the gardens was at the forefront of her mind so, with the chains hanging loosely in front of her, swinging like a censer, she took her place at his left, just between him and Savage.

Gracefully, she collapsed like a doe. The jingling fetters barely made a sound. The cold apathy remained with her for the day, and she didn't know how she ever got along without it.

It was so _easy_. All this time, all she had to do from incurring beatings and self-loathing was give in. Boom. Done.

No more worrying about pain, no more anger…and no more Obi-wan. Her heart gave a pang at that last concession, but it was not enough to wake her from the dispirited slumber. With cold logic, she surmised that he was probably dead anyway. She hadn't seen him for weeks, hadn't felt his presence. No one spoke of him, no one cared.

Maul was probably just keeping the threat alive, but to her it seemed unnecessary. He had won. She was broken.

Sadness and relief flooded through her. She no longer had to try, no longer had to fight. In fact, there was nothing left to give. The Sith had hollowed her out like a gutted fish. All that was left was the husk and the fear.

 _Husk and fear_ , she repeated to herself.

Yet, even the latter seemed to lessen the number she became.

The hours passed by in a gray haze. Reports came in and out, meetings had been arranged per usual, and the time whipped by quickly. Eyes, mind, and heart glazed over, she couldn't feel her legs but she did not care. Every inconvenience was met with a shrug.

When lunch rolled around, she nibbled on the regular morsel while Maul watched her silently. At noon the soldiers switched shifts, so that the morning group could grab food. The room began to fill with the shuffling of combat boots and the quiet chatting that went with it.

It was perhaps the most relaxed time of day.

She could hear Savage's annoyed grunt.

"Finally."

His pounding footsteps followed the squadrons out, Drack walking smoothly alongside him. It was a small window. Maul's most trusted pair would return in minutes, snatching a leg of meat and scarfing it down before hurrying back.

Though she supposed Savage would have done that anyway, with or without the time constraint. He always came back with bones stuck in his teeth.

The atmosphere may have appeared more cavalier, but to her it had always been the most nerve-racking.

A selected guard would be responsible for her sustenance. The food she received depended greatly on that chosen person's opinion of her. Sometimes she would get nothing, but Maul would never pick that particular soldier again if that had been the case.

Most of the time she got crackers or a piece of bread.

Dinner was better because that was a busy time. The Sith liked to conduct meetings during it, which meant she got to partake of the feasts that were thrown. Obviously, she couldn't gorge herself like she wanted to, but it was better than a dirty wafer that had sat in a Death Watch pocket.

Today's meal was unusual nice: Two pieces of bread.

She silently thanked the anonymous sentry who had given it to her.

Picking it apart daintily, she chewed it slowly, trying to savor the feel of wheat on her tongue. With each bite, her marred features stung.

Even before the Sithian gashes, she could never fully lose herself in the taste bud sensations, for Maul had a habit of staring at her throughout. She didn't know what he found so interesting, and it used to bother her a great deal.

Now, she was unusually blasé.

As a result, she noted things that never caught her attention. For instance, she hadn't noticed before, but she had never seen him eat. Curious and deadened, instead of avoiding his gaze as she normally did, she lifted her watery eyes to him.

She was sure the no speaking rule was still in place. When it came to brutality, he had the memory of an elephant. So, she simply thought:

 _Aren't you hungry?_

Turned toward her, his elbow was propped on the handle of the cathedra. His cheek leaned on his fist, legs crossed. She could see his eyes shimmer with what appeared to be surprise, but then they faded into the normal mix of anger and indifference.

It had been the first time she had actually acknowledged him, the first time that she had taken an interest in his actions.

 _Fascinating…_ he thought.

After a few more seconds of brooding he responded with a slight shake of his head.

She bit her lip, wanting to ask why.

She didn't have to.

"Mother Talzin saw to that when she _fixed_ me," he said vaguely, rolling his eyes.

Satine could tell that the memory made him angry…well, more angry.

"Yes, thank your precious Obi for that," he growled. "He has taken much from me."

It clicked then.

 _He doesn't have a stomach…just metal and wiring._

She nodded thoughtfully and looked down at her hands, for she had never considered what it would be like to be sliced in two. Sure, he had his legs back, but it wouldn't be the same as flesh, blood, and guts.

For some reason, it made her sad.

If he had been mildly startled before, he was stunned now. He checked his instincts again. Did she feel…s _orry f_ or him?

Her face fell ever so slightly.

She did feel sorry for him!

He narrowed his eyes menacingly. She felt the increased power of his glare and peered innocently back at him.

 _Did I do something wrong?_ came her sheepish question.

He wasn't sure how to answer that.

A flurry of emotions boiled in his gut, he sat up in his chair, and in response she leaned away. Wrath was surely coming.

A severe posture, she closed her eyes and waited for the hit, nerves on edge.

All she heard was a snigger.

It became a throaty chuckle.

Then, it escalated to a full blown roar.

In disbelief, she snapped her lids back open. Her jaw began to part in amazement.

Maul was laughing like she had never seen him. Bent over, his black-clothed shoulders were vibrating chaotically, rocking, and he coughed several times in between bouts of maddening cackles.

This oddity caught the attention of the Death Watch, who stopped what they were doing and peered back at their Sith leader, probably just as flabbergasted as her.

It went for a minute, she couldn't stop staring.

Finally, he sat back, hands on his stomach, still trying to hold in giggles. When he got control of himself, he gave the paused and confused soldiers a warning look. Even from across the room, they understood. The procession to and from the cafeteria continued once more.

He gaze flicked back to her.

Her eyes were wide with astonishment and her mouth formed an 'o.' It was an odd expression amidst the Sith markings.

"You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" he finally croaked as he leaned against his fist yet again.

The bread she clutched in her fingers was crumbling, all she could do was look back at him.

"I don't think I can remember a time that I've been so surprised…" he muttered to himself, peering to the side as he contemplated memories.

There had only been one other instance, one other memory that rivaled this feeling.

It was when a young, sniveling Padawan, enraged by the death of his master, had severed Maul's torso from the rest of his body. He recollected the feel of it—how his face had lifted, brow raised while a burning sensation shot up from his waist; how gravity yanked him downward into the abyss, while his upper half seemed to float in pain.

He sighed, though it came out as more of a snarl.

"Still, I suppose it's a close second," he surmised aloud, not caring how confused this made the girl.

He snapped back from his reminiscences, a new curiosity bubbling.

"Tell me," he snapped purposefully to Satine, who jumped at his sudden eagerness. "Why did you feel that way?"

In all truthfulness, she didn't know herself, and she worried that honesty would win her no points. But if she lied, he would find out, and she would never get to the gardens.

 _May I speak?_ she asked after she had formulated a decent response.

He gave a tight nod.

Coughing to clear her throat and buy her time, she hung her head, trying to find the words.

"I-I guess I just felt sorry because I will probably never know what it's like to…" she paused and inhaled, hoping she wasn't angering him. "…be…to be torn to pieces like that. It's a terrible fate."

By the end she was barely above a whisper, her eyes became downcast. The last slice of bread had been ripped apart so much that it sat in tatters on the floor, wasted.

"I don't need your pity, Satine," he growled finally with a sneer. " _I_ _have_ everything that I ever wanted. Legs and eating were a small price to pay to achieve my goals."

She nodded. He was probably right. It had been foolish of her to have sympathy when he had obviously risen above his past.

The rest of the afternoon passed in silence. It was a dull day, but the sun was setting quickly. Maul and she were in a conference room by the end of it.

A map lay before him, spread across a table while Drack and other officers pointed and remarked upon it. She stood in the back of the room, hands clasped together in front of her as the glittering chain just touched the ground. No one held her in place, for the only way out was past Maul, Drack, Savage, and their cronies. It would be overkill to assign someone to watch her.

Plus, the spirit of escape had all but evaporated. She numbly listened to the conversation, not even bothering to note who was talking and who wasn't.

"Rebels are collaborating here…and here. They're trying to smuggle in weapons."

"Jonz is causing trouble again. Keeps trying to sell information to the Senate."

"Almec is throwing another temper tantrum. He wants more security."

Maul nodded intently, wheels spinning in his head.

"Brother," Savage offered, cutting in. "Let me deal with the rebels. They'll be dead within the hour."

Contemplating, the other Sith shook his head.

"I know their kind better than they know themselves," he bragged as he held his gloved hand to his pointed chin. "After many years I realized that you cannot kill a rebel, they'll only become martyrs. Instead, you must _annihilate_ it. You must cut it off from the people, leave it alone and alienated from the rest. No, you don't kill a rebel—you kill its family, its friends, its neighbors, it acquaintances, _anyone_ who associates with it, who _breathes_ near it. That is what you must do, apprentice. Find out who these men are, but more importantly find their loved ones. Then, leave only the rebel alive. Let the people kill him themselves. Go."

Putting his fist over his heart, Savage gave a bow and a murderous grin.

"As you wish, my master," he practically purred.

His hand was already wrapped around his lightsaber when he sauntered excitedly out, taking a couple of decorated guards with him. Drack gave a nod of approval. The Sith were wise, practical, and ruthless. Everything a true Mandalorian should be.

If Satine hadn't been so used to these types of speeches, she would have vomited. Instead, she stared blankly at the desk, trying to decide if it was black or brown.

Maul turned to the lieutenant.

"Tell Almec that he is perfectly safe," he said, annoyed. "And if he doesn't stop complaining and taking up my time, he won't remain that way."

Drack nodded and coughed a laugh, awaiting more orders.

"Oh, and dispose of Jonz, will you?" Maul exclaimed, twirling his hand in the air like he was ordering a vintage wine. "I want his head by morning. You're dismissed."

Drack also bowed, though more formally, and marched out, taking the rest of the soldiers with him.

She had decided that the desk was brown. It seemed darker in the dimness, but she could see hints of warmth to it. Maul sat heavily and dragged his hand over his face, muttering under his breath about the idiocy that surrounded him.

"It shouldn't be so difficult," he finally mused aloud, curling a lip. "It's common sense!" he turned to face her. "You don't kill a germ by attacking the symptoms—you strangle it at the source. Why is that so hard to understand?"

Not sure if she was supposed to answer, she merely gave a little roll of her shoulders. He crossed his arms and leaned against the back of the chair.

"Imbeciles…" he mumbled again. "No wonder this galaxy has gone to rot…"

She bit her lip and took to studying her feet.

They were quite dirty, a perk of being barefooted. With black smudges and hangnails, she wondered if she would be able to wash them soon.

He gave an exasperated sigh.

"Fine," he barked and stood. "Let's go."

Perplexed for a moment, she lifted her cuffed hands to him as he approached, waiting for him to take them. He didn't.

Another test, she surmised. She lowered them.

Instead, he walked straight out the door, not waiting to see if she would follow him. Of course, after he was around the corner, she trotted after him. When she stepped onto the cool, muddy marble, he was waiting, an intense look in his eyes.

"Fascinating…" he thought for the second time that day, studying her, his mind probing hers.

If she concentrated enough, she could usually feel when his presence invaded her head. It was a chilling, disquieting sensation, like finding a spider under your pillow. Nevertheless, she did nothing to hamper it, nothing to counteract it.

Patiently, she waited.

Finally, after plucking out what he wanted, he whisked around and began to walk again, even faster this time. It became a struggle to keep up with him, the air pricked her face. Enjoying himself far too much, he then stopped on a dime.

Skidding to a sloppy halt, she almost crashed right into him, but managed to hang on by her gnarled toes.

He gave a wispy laugh and slowed his pace considerably.

"Come here," he quietly ordered over his shoulder.

Head bowed, she went to his side, trying to match his steps. He put his hands behind his back. He steered the two of them out into the western side of the atrium. Happily, she realized that it was in the direction of the gardens.

Not one to give into false hope or assumptions, she tried to stifle her excitement.

"You did well today," he said gruffly, hating that he had given her a slight compliment.

But, he was a man of his word.

The doors opened and she peered upward, already soothed by the vitality of trees and soil. She didn't know who was taking care of this place, but it looked just the same. Nonetheless, she did not lose her head like the last time. Properly, she awaited his command.

Not speaking, he stopped, turned, gave a tight, almost bitter nod, and went to sit on the stone slabs. Humbly, she gave a slight bow and strode off into the makeshift forest. It was only when she was out of his sight that she began to interact with the vegetation.

Lonely, Satine ambled down the dirt paths, letting her fingers brush lightly over canopied leaves and flower petals. Candlelit memories echoed in the back of her thoughts:

Her and her sister, as children, running and playing hide and seek, giggling madly.

Years passed, and Bo-Katan was no longer there. Now it was just Satine who danced around the flowers as she grew into maturity. She recalled the pang of heartbreak over losing her sister to radicals. There had been many fights, many words that would never be forgiven nor forgotten.

Time flipped by once more. Her fiery, revolutionary sister was replaced with Jedi. The mantle of authority had been placed on her shoulders; she was Duchess now. Dignified, she held her chin high as she conversed with an aging Qui-gon Jinn, while his mischievous Padawan sulked behind them. With a smile on her lips, she reminisced how much he had bothered her. The bratty Obi-wan, who'd rather be fighting than talking, couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her, couldn't seem to understand manners.

A couple times, while the Jedi Master wasn't looking, she would glare at him. In return, he would give a cocky grin, sometimes a wink, and she would huff, completely infuriated.

He hadn't been much older than her then. It struck her suddenly how young the two of them had been. Much had happened in between. The calm and gentle Qui-gon had died, ripping a hole in his Padawan that would never be filled. She and Obi had grown apart.

The memories would not stop.

They had fought.

"I can't, Satine."

The look of pain in his eyes almost made her wish she hadn't said it. But she couldn't hold in her feelings any longer.

"But I love you!" she countered again, grabbing his hands, making him look at her. "Doesn't that count for anything?"

It was twilight. They had been sitting in the middle of these very gardens. The scent of spring mingled with the premonitions of incoming rain. The sun peeked through an ambush of storm clouds.

Obi became more strained, she could see the fight within him.

 _Maybe there's a chance!_

Then, he became cold, detached. He pulled away from her. He stood, and turned his head, refusing to look her in the eye.

"I'm a Jedi, Duchess," he responded formally, his voice wooden.

She flinched at the sound of her title, but would not give up.

"So?" she exclaimed, leaping to her feet. "Would it be such a bad thing to break _one_ rule? Don't you like me at all?"

At this, he sighed.

"Of course I do, Satine."

She smirked, she was getting somewhere.

"But I've made vows, I've promised my life to the Jedi," he continued, trying to make her see, to understand. "I cannot turn my back on them, not when they need me most."

"Why do you have to choose?" she refuted, aggravated. "I'm willing to adapt, Obi. I don't care about having a proper wedding or family or relationship! In fact, if no one ever knows, it wouldn't bother me in the least. Just as long as I know you love me!"

Stillness settled. The sun hid behind a somber sky. She was breathing heavily, her heart drummed loudly in her ears, but when he spoke she heard him so clearly that she could still hear the memory of his voice in her head.

With a glare, one that she had never seen on his face before and one she would never forget, he spat:

"I don't love you."

He walked away, taking her heart with him.

She came back to reality, not realizing she had walked right to the spot where the two of them had been that day. But instead of him, instead of Obi-wan, there was only Maul. It was a fitting end.

A taunting, arrogant smile was carved into his skin, but his eyes were intense and concentrated. After a moment, they snapped to her.

"My, my," he commented airily. "What a curious day this has been."

For once, she agreed with him.


	18. Decision

Taking shelter, he had finally found a deserted room. It sat in the heart of the eastern wing. After looking and finding nothing, he had dragged himself to the small couch within, too tired to continue crawling through the vents any longer.

He was losing hope.

The Duchess was clearly well guarded.

He hadn't been able to catch a glimpse, but right when he thought he felt her in the Force, she would slip away. The bond between them was strong, but he worried about using it. Maul was certainly listening in.

It struck him that maybe he should be looking for Maul instead of the Duchess, but that, too, had its difficulties. With a Sith so strong, anything seemed possible. Maul was no longer under lock and key, on a leash. Unbounded and reckless, Kenobi could sense that his nemesis was meddling with things that should never be disturbed.

Unable to decide what to do, he took to studying the guards for the day.

He knew their routes by heart, as well as their coded language. He knew the rank and file, the hierarchies, the leaders and the followers. Unfortunately, each was well acquainted with its peers—he would have to wait for fresh recruits if he wanted to impersonate one again.

It didn't work so well the last time.

His growing frustration had to be checked incessantly. The days spent here withered his control. If he didn't get a hold on his emotions, he would surely be found, caught, and gutted.

The mystery of why the Sith let him out in the first place plagued his mind. Did he honestly think that the Jedi had lost his wits in the dark? What was he trying to prove?

He rolled over on the futon, squeezing his eyes. His midnight thoughts would not let him sleep.

A constant drum beat sounded:

 _Find Satine…Find Satine…Find Satine…Find Satine_

He couldn't take it much longer. The guilt was destroying him.

 _Leave._

As soon as he thought it, he snarled, disgusted.

His brain began to fight itself, civil war.

 _Not now…not when she's so close! I will NEVER leave her with the Sith!_

 _You can't do this by yourself. Do you always have to be the one to save the day?_

 _The Council will never listen. I have to do this alone, now. Plus, it's almost certain that I'll be thrown out of the Order if I ever return._

 _Then leave._ The tired part of him echoed again. _Go somewhere else. Settle down. Start a family. Grow crops on a farm. Never think about this place again._

He could see the image, could see his personal Eden.

Two kids, one lithe, honey-colored girl and one luminous, blonde-haired boy—they're running through the billowing fields with their favorite pet, screaming and laughing. In a simple tunic, Obi watches from the doorway, a lazy smile on his face. He contemplates sprinting out there to join them.

He almost does when arms wrap around his chest, a chin leans onto his shoulder. He feels thick, lush hair against his bearded face. He doesn't have to look to see who it is.

Satine, with her hair grown out wildly that spills across his and her shoulders, she wears a thick headband encrusted with wildflowers that reminds him of his mother. The two of them grin at each other, their spirits lighter than the clouds in the sky.

He snatches her hand in his and the two of them gallop into the field. He hears her laugh behind him as she tries to keep up. When they spot their two children, who have taken to playing fetch, Satine begins to outrun him.

Pleasantly surprised, he stops in his tracks to watch the scene. The boy and girl stop, too, and look to see what the commotion is. Satine is almost upon them, and they yell in terror and start to dash away.

But she is too quick, and she snatches them up in her arms, enveloping them in a bear hug. They complain about how she's smothering them, but then they start to giggle. In an attempt to get away, they tickle her madly, and she falls onto her back, begging for mercy.

He gazes fondly on as she looks his way, pleading for help.

Instantly, he bursts onto the scene, picking up the boy and placing him on his shoulders, never stopping as he does. The boy's white locks, even lighter than his mother's, flutter chaotically, he makes Starship noises. Soon, the tinier girl wants to be lifted up too, and he has them both on his strong back, pretending to be an angry bull Bantha. Now Satine is the one to watch, but she does not do so quietly. In the background, she's laughing as she sits in the dirt.

Soon the kids become tired, they've missed their nap. So, he places them gently on the ground. They curl around one another like pups in a litter, trying to vie for dominance even in sleep. Worn, but immeasurably happy, Obi-wan plops next to Satine.

They study the tykes for a few blissful moments, but then they're looking into one another's eyes—blue vs. blue. Suddenly, their lips are locked. A perfect end to a perfect day.

The vision fades.

He crashes back to reality.

Almost from outside his body, he sees himself beaten and worn on the couch. His face is thin, he has not eaten in memory. He's dressed in rags, the stench of sweat and blood permeates throughout the dark room. There is no happiness, Satine is not here smiling up at him.

His beard is tangled, matted, it almost reaches his stomach. He has not seen the sun in weeks, perhaps months. He has not felt the coolness of the morning air, nor rain or snow or hail, for just as long. He has not peered up at a full moon, he has not witnessed the rising sun, he has not laughed genuinely, he does not know if will ever do so again.

He is a broken man.

Suddenly, in this misery, the path becomes clear.

He does not want to be broken anymore, he wants to be fixed. More than anything, more than being a Jedi, more than his love for Satine, he wants to be made whole again.

So, with a new purposefulness, he starts with the obvious:

He looks for a bath.

There is one in this very room, one he had not noted in his anger. Not caring whether someone hears him or not, he fills it to the brim, strips, and plunges into it. He did not wait for it to cool down. It burns, but he feels the dirt cracking. He submerges.

Holding his breath for as long as he can, he comes up for air. He uses his calloused hands to rub the dirt off. Even in the gloom, he notices the water begin to change from clarity to muddy. He steps out, pulls the stopper, and lets it drain. Then, he starts all over.

He continues this process until every speck of grime is removed. Feeling slightly more tranquil, but still hollowed out, he scours the area for new clothes. There are two closets and the first reveals nothing but cobwebs. The second is more fortuitous.

A huge, white shirt. He guessed it had been for a larger resident who had stayed here recently, with baggy pants to match. Happy to have something other than the prison rags, he tries his best to hem the trousers, ripping the ends off haphazardly.

The tunic is easier, he simply rolls up the sleeves and ties the bottom in a knot.

Next, is the hardest part: Finding a knife.

Here, his luck has run out. So, resolutely, he snaps a metal leg off from the couch and begins to sharpen it. Occasionally, he uses the Force, but sparingly, making sure it is not enough to be detected. Mind blank, he works for hours. Finally, it is sharp enough to use, and he snags the end of his beard and slahes through it.

Like a scythe through wheat, it does the job. He starts to whittle off hair, getting closer to his chin, not needing a mirror to know what to do. After all, he managed to do the very same in the middle of the desert, with droid blasts booming all around.

Content, he supposes it will do for now. A pile of hair forms a circle around him, his beard is not as precise as he would like, but it is certainly shorter and doesn't intrude into his mouth any longer. He wipes away the stray hairs with his sleeve.

Physically but not mentally whole, he searches for something else to do.

His stomach thunders. His next task is set.

Poking his head out through the door, he checks for any sounds or bodies. Only an unnerving quiet greets him. Jumping out, he leaps back into the vents and scampers through until he reaches the kitchens. He had spotted them earlier when they were filled with staff and guards. Now, thankfully, they're empty.

With a deadpan confidence, he sneaks out of hiding.

Quick hands and feet, he throws open pantries, and finds a plethora of mouthwatering delicacies like fruit and bread. He reminds himself to only take what he needs, for they are sure to keep a supply check.

Piling the food into his shirt, he wraps it in the folds. Like a ghost, he disappears back into the secret tunnels that hide in plain sight.

It was almost too easy, he makes it back to his chosen nest in no time. Situating himself on a rug, he lays out his bounty: Three slices of Harshuun bread and a handful of berries.

He makes sure to eat slowly, he does not know when he'll be able to go out again. He preserves several of the berries, but eats all the bread.

It is the most he has had in what seems like a lifetime. His stomach is relatively pleased and ceases its howling.

All the while, he cannot get the serene vision out of his thoughts. He realizes that it is his heart's deepest desire. It is the only thing that will make him whole again. He comes to this conclusion with a detachment that he has never felt before. It is simple fact. This dream must be realized or he will shatter.

His lids droop, and he allows himself to fall asleep, curled on the floor. He has finally made up his mind, and he eagerly awaits tomorrow.

 _I will save Satine or I will die trying._


	19. Star-crossed

**A/N: Hope I'm not destroying your feels too much. Enjoy~**

Like a gaping hole in the middle of a chest, it was impossible to patch up her mind. Now Maul knew something that she had suppressed for years. The image of Obi's retreating back stuck to her thoughts like a hook.

With every attempt to think about something else, there were the Jedi's crushed, saddened eyes, his somber countenance.

Thoroughly intrigued by what else the girl knew, Maul patted the stone beside him, inviting her to sit with him.

She obeyed without hesitation.

"Do go on," he encouraged evilly. "What happened next?"

Useless against herself and her captor, she plunged once more into the stream of recollections. She closed her eyes, trying to remember it better.

There had been the day when he left for war. It was the last time she would see him until just this year.

He had raced over to Mandalore just to tell her. She could see his excitement as well as his wariness. Jedi were peacemakers, and war seemed too concrete. Once the step was taken it could never be retracted, like quick sand.

But it was to be taken nonetheless. The clones and droids were in production, generals were being starred and named, star fleets assembled and equipped. The tide would be impossible to stop.

Even by this time she was against all violence, but her negotiations with both the Republic and the Separatists had failed. She proclaimed neutrality just days before Obi-wan's arrival.

His young Padawan, Anakin, accompanied him to her palace. In him, she sensed the same boyishness of Obi, but even she could tell there was an unspoken power below the surface. There was an edge to the teenager. He smiled but it never reached his steel eyes, he cracked jokes but never laughed for long.

Indeed, this boy had seen much sorrow, but she would be the last to wager against him in a fight—there was something about the way he moved that made her think of a wolf. He strode gracefully, but also lumbered, as if carrying an invisible burden.

"Get on with it," Maul snapped, breaking her train of thought. "Enough about the brat."

Startled by the commentary, she flinched and lost her previous train of thought. Retracing her steps, she refocused her attention on Obi. Much like before, they had been walking side by side with a grumpy Padawan behind them. Though, when she tried to give Anakin a reassuring smile, he only grimaced in response.

The difference between the two was stark, for Kenobi was talking excitedly about his new title as both a general and a Jedi knight. She listened patiently, but was put off by his unabashed eagerness to start a war. It felt as if they talked for hours, and she was amazed at the patience of the Padawan; however, when she turned back around to congratulate him on it, he was gone.

 _Not so patient after all…s_ he had thought.

The conversation died down, and she became acutely aware of being left alone with Obi. The fight they had had months before still stung like a splinter, but they were both trying to be cordial about it, with the key word being try.

After all, he had come all this way just to tell her about the war, that had to mean something right?

"What are you thinking about?" the Jedi had asked her, with a brow raised.

She knew if she told him he would only become angry like last time. So, she took a moment to study him, gauging his stability.

The beard was an interesting addition, she didn't know if she liked it. It made him seem different somehow, like he was trying to cover something up. Nonetheless, she did enjoy the way the light hit it, making the honey color shimmer.

He followed her gaze and laughed lightly, unconsciously putting a hand up to stroke his furry chin.

"Is that all?" he teased, and his white teeth sparkled amidst the sea of brown hair. "Well, what do you think?"

She made a face.

"It makes you look like a proper Jedi."

She had not meant it to sound so bitter, but she couldn't disguise the hurt that still lurked within her. His grin vanished.

"Yes, I suppose it does…" he mumbled, not taking the bait.

An awkward quiet descended as he tried to think of something to say. Yet, no topic seemed safe, so he went back to regaling her with war talk.

But her patience had thinned considerably. Were they just going to dance around the subject? It had been all well and good for a little while, but they couldn't run in circles forever. Plus, she was starting to loathe his belligerent spirit.

"Didn't you say the Jedi were peacemakers?" she finally cut in, unable to take it any longer.

He made a huffing sound, but disguised it as a cough.

"Well, um, yes, of course we are," he responded, perplexed. "That's why we must stop the Separatists."

She quickened her pace. They had been wandering the halls talking, going around in circles. The light from the windows pooled in, they stepped in and out of shadows, her opulent heels clicked quickly.

"That's rather vague, don't you think?" she retorted, an air of snobbery about her. "What does it mean to 'stop' something? Does it mean you have to burn down that something's villages? Or drag other somethings into a mess they never started? And why do you have to 'stop' them anyway? Are the Jedi so full of themselves as to think that every planet in the universe would be lost without them? Did they even _try_ to make peace first? Or did they just barge in with lightsabers blazing as usual?"

It was a full scale rant. She couldn't stop the sentences coming out if she tried. The resentment had been festering within her so long.

All the while, he kept pace with her timidly, but she could see his face harden—she wouldn't get the last word.

"Are you done?" he finally asked sarcastically.

The heat boiled in her cheeks, she stopped in the middle of the deserted passageway.

"As a matter of fact I am," she hissed back at him, fists at her sides. "Are you just going to pretend that our last meeting never happened?"

She watched in semi-horror as genuine surprise flashed across his face. Did she really mean that little to him?

"You don't even _remember_ do you?!" she accused, completely baffled.

The moment that had been carved into her psyche for the past year had not seemed to affect him in the slightest!

"N—" he began, but she was too angry, too heartbroken.

"Why did you even come here?" she cut off, nostrils flaring.

The astonishment was replaced by hurt; it was his turn to be ripped in half.

"I _came_ to see you!" he snarled, breathing fire. "And of course I remember, Satine, but there's nothing to do about it! I can't take back what I said, and I couldn't even if I wanted to. I'm too far gone…"

A profound sadness began to cripple him, and her fury evaporated. Immediately, she felt an overwhelming need to hold him in her arms and tend to his wounded soul. But she supposed it would only make things worse. She sighed, and the two of them felt the weight of the galaxy on their shoulders, combined.

He gave a bitter chuckle.

"Do you know who that boy is?" and she guessed he meant his Padawan.

She shook her head, and then led the two of them into a nearby conference room, taking him by the hand. He did not resist.

Sitting heavily, he let her hold onto his battle-scarred fingers, her touch was too soothing to pass up.

He explained Anakin's story, he told her of his former Master's prediction that he believed the youngling to be the Chosen One, the one who would bring balance to the Force.

"Qui-gon was supposed to be his master," he stated, strained. "But that responsibility has fallen to me. I cannot abandon him, Satine."

She nodded emptily. The universe seemed to be stacked against them. The unfairness of it all made her want to scream.

"And I can't abandon the Order now," he continued, his head hung. "Whether or not you agree with it, war is upon us. How can I leave my friends leaderless? How can I turn my cheek to the suffering and do nothing? And now Yoda keeps having visions, sensing the return of the Dark Side. Maul may be dead, but there are always two. We still don't have a clue who the other Sith Lord is, and now we find out that the Separatists are being led by Dooku, who was trained under Yoda himself! These are dark times, Satine, and I feel as though I will not make it out alive."

He was barely above a whisper by the end of it.

Her obliviousness was eating her up. How selfish she had been!

He sensed her self-loathing.

"No, it's ok," he took a deep breath. "You didn't know."

"It's no excuse…" she began.

"No," and he gripped her hands tightly and stared into her face, beseeching. "If anyone should apologize, it's me, Satine. I didn't mean what I said that day. You don't know how… _tormented_ I've been these past months. No matter how much I meditate or train or teach, I can't get you out of my head. I don't know if I'll ever be able to make it up to you, but I just wanted you to know that I'm not the heartless bastard you think I am."

Per usual, she gave a little giggle at his joke, and he smirked half-heartedly in return.

She had been right, he did have feelings for her, but now it appeared to be too late.

An elephant began to emerge within the room.

"What do we do now?" she asked poignantly, looking out the window into the fading sunset light.

Even though he leaned backward, he did not let go of her.

"I don't think there's anything we can do, my dear."

Though filled with remorse and a profound loneliness, she nodded woefully. Fate was a cruel thing.

For the rest of the time, they simply looked at each other. He was intent on memorizing every inch of her person, and she was trying to see past the beard, trying to see the cocky boy who lay beneath. A knock finally sounded at the door to the room when all the light had vanished. It was Anakin, announcing that they should get going.

She escorted them silently back to their ship. She and Obi's fingers were an inch apart, but they couldn't connect them, not here, not now. When his Padawan sauntered up the ramp and into the cockpit, Obi turned to her, his face bittersweet.

"Until we meet again, Duchess," he proclaimed formally.

"Force be with you, Jedi," she replied just as properly, though her chin was trembling.

The blue palace guards were walking away, trying to get out of combustion distance, but she remained. In their own pocket of the world, Obi-wan took her delicate, limp hand and placed his whiskered lip to it, not taking his eyes off her.

"Stay safe, my precious Satine," he whispered.

In response, she plucked her favorite ornament out of her hair and pressed it into his palm. It was a silver-blue flower that her mother had given her on her first birthday. Under sun and moon it would sparkle brighter than the stars themselves, a tiny constellation.

"Know that you have my heart, my love," she said as a single tear fell. "Wherever you go."

She could tell that he wanted to say so much more, but she heard a whiny grunt come from within the craft.

"You coming, old man?"

Obi-wan didn't reply to Anakin, but he did begin to back away into the ship. Their stretched fingers fell away from one another. She stood and watched as the ramp closed into the hatch, as the metal hid him from her. She began to feel very small, a child in a giant's world.

Almost too quickly, the little transporter floated and sped away into the sky, leaving nothing behind.

The searing pain of that memory jolted her.

She opened her eyes, and realized that she was crying, although quietly. Rivers of water sped down her cheeks undammed. The shock of coming back to the real world was almost too much, but she kept the rest of her head calm. Maul sat next to her, thoughtful, a hand to his chin.

"What an amusing tale," he finally remarked contemptuously, and she couldn't say she was surprised by his reaction. "Oh, the poor star-crossed lovers! So sad! Makes me want to cry!" he hooted, and she sat there and took it, wiping her damp face. "I mean, I knew Kenobi was weak, but this is just _pathetic_!"

He was goading her, this she knew. The numbness was beginning to course through her again, her only defense. The tears had slowed considerably, but the image of the two of them on that ship platform wouldn't leave her be. It was last time they had been alone together. The next time she saw him, it was all business. Their feelings were left in the air, once again.

"Oh, boo-hoo," Maul commented, rolling his eyes. "Life isn't fair, Satine. In fact, I would consider yourself lucky."

She peered at him and blinked. It was about as emotional as she was going to get.

"For you see," he said, landing the final blow. "You may not have the Jedi, but you'll _always_ have me."


	20. Lockdown

The morning broke in the torn sky of Mandalore. Blood had been spilt that night, heads had been freed from their bodies, massacre. Locked away in the palace, Satine slept peacefully on, unaware of the tragedy going on outside. The Sith who had ordered the bloodshed dozed lightly next to her, though he never slept for long.

Throughout the night his eyes would snap open. A tremor reverberating, he would smile, for enemies had been slain. Their life-forces flickered and were extinguished, leaving a smattering of holes in the Living Force.

Obi-wan was restless as well.

He had pockets of deep sleep but he, too, would awaken with a terrible feeling, a hollow sensation of pain and sorrow and death. His resolve to end this nightmare crystallized all the more. It would end today.

Screams then went silent, and a day of mourning arrived with the rising of the morning star.

Relatively refreshed, Obi sat up and rose off the ground. He did not know how much rest he got, but it was enough, he was far too agitated. He scarfed down the remaining berries and hustled out the door, sensing no one in the halls.

Leaping into the vent, he knew his first order of business.

 _It ends…_ he chanted again and again, giving him strength of will.

The passageways were dead, the soldiers had not yet risen—an opportunity and a risk. If he was spotted, that would be it, it would be done, and they would never escape this place. He could not hide behind bodies or armor this early in the day. Crawling rapidly, his knees were used to the throb, used to banging silently against metal a thousand times.

His mind was sharp, clear, as if the fog of the previous month had lifted. He had decided—there was no going back, a visible and ready path. Eyes piercing, he came upon a vacant room.

Steadily, silently, he lifted the grill off and carefully placed it next to him in the vent. He leapt down, and landed artfully on his toes, a crouching cat.

Looking this way and that, he affirmed that no one was near, but did not try to sense too much, too far. He wanted to keep his sphere completely separated from Maul's.

It was the security room, and he had managed to break in between shifts. Videos flickered on a thousand screens. He gave them a cursory glance, covering his bases.

No Satine.

 _Figures._

Then he set about rummaging through the drawers, trying to find a hodgepodge of parts. Snatching screwdrivers, wires, nails, discs, he took anything that might be of service.

He kept an eye on the monitors.

When he had collected enough, he noted a blurry block of bodies marching on the screens, headed his way. Swearing silently, he had less time than he thought.

He sprung back into the vent, pockets and hands full of mechanical scraps. The grill had just fallen into place when the panels to the room flicked open—the morning shift.

He remained still, watchful. He completely expected them to take notice of the missing items, but he needed to know the time, needed to know how much of it he had. Luckily, last night's endeavors left this particular group of Death Watch groggy and slow. So, he worked as he watched.

Mindlessly, for he had done it a thousand times on the battlefield, he silently toyed with the parts. He bent metal and twisted wires, screwed discs and nails. Finally, all he needed was a charge and good signal location.

He suspected that outside would be the best area to catch radio waves, but it still left the problem of generating the damn thing.

 _I'll figure something out…_ he thought optimistically.

The communicator had been built, but he still needed the guards to realize it.

Finally, one of them asked for a particular item sleepily. An equally tired sentry dug through the trashed compartments but found nothing. Perplexed, he checked all the drawers that Obi-wan had just ransacked.

As expected, they began to catch on.

"I can't find it anywhere! I knew I saw it here yesterday…"

An astute soldier noted:

"It's not just that. Someone's been in here."

He nodded toward the disheveled state of the desks.

Silence.

"You don't think…?"

"Get Drack."

One of them scampered off.

Obi-wan followed suit, and crawled quickly away, his crude invention clenched in his fist.

* * *

In the heavy tides of slumber, she was wrenched awake once more.

She sat up somberly with a sigh.

However, the morning was far from normal.

Maul was nowhere to be seen, but she heard his low, raspy voice from the other room, speaking quickly. Her nerves began to prickle with unease, something was happening.

"Get dressed!" came an order in between quiet snarls.

There was a new ruthlessness in the tone of his voice, a sense of urgency that began to sweep the atmosphere up in a whirlwind. Practically sprinting, she threw on her clothes, clasped the chains on herself, and galloped to the entryway.

Drack was there, he didn't once turn in her direction but kept whispering to Maul. Savage was beside him, arms crossed casually with an eager smile crooked on his bestial face.

When he spotted her, he winked.

She gave no reaction but looked on, a bit star-struck. No one had ever been here, in this place, in _his_ quarters like this. The room felt positively claustrophobic.

Opress gave a low chuckle, sensing her confusion.

"I see why you like it so much, brother," he muttered under his breath. "She's so _easy_!"

Like a deer spotted by a pack of wolves, they all turned to look at her for a moment. Her crystal-blue eyes were wide with worry. They stood out like diamonds against her sunken, gaunt cheeks. Her frame was even more famished, the ember-colored attire hung loosely and contrasted sharply with her pallid flesh. All in all, she looked like a small, frightened child who was waiting for a reassuring lullaby.

Yet, she would receive none.

Maul jerked his chin, she scampered over.

Drack stiffened the closer she got, as if she was a leper, whereas Savage shuffled toward her, wanting in on the fun.

The electricity in the air had not died, but it was clear that the conversation was over. Maul nodded once to his Death Watch lieutenant, whose gnarled, painted helmet and antlers gleamed in the dim. Visibly relieved, he marched out, leaving her and the two Sith alone.

Savage took Drack's place beside her. Lesser of two evils, she unconsciously leaned toward Maul.

But, it seemed her time in the spotlight had passed, for the brothers were looking intently at one another, gears churning in their respective heads.

"A holoprojector," the bulky tan and brown Dathomirian finally said in his deep, lumbering voice.

His more vibrantly colored, leaner sibling replied, hissing:

"Yes."

"He'll need a signal."

"Yes."

"I'll see to it," Savage grunted, not waiting for Maul to send him off.

He gave her another wink before he left, which made her nerve endings squeal, goosebumps abounded.

Maul was…well, there weren't really words, but Savage was unequivocally worse. Young Sith were far more reckless, she noted, and therefore far more terrifying.

"Ha!" Maul choked out, cracking a ghostly grin at her. "He would have killed you within your first hour here. In fact, I believe he still wants to," he sighed melodramatically and chuckled again. "He doesn't appreciate you the way I do. Still has to learn patience, I'm afraid."

She gave a slight shudder. The aura returned to normal, somewhat, but she was nonetheless baffled by the rush.

"But all in due time," he continued and began walking through the door.

She followed, trying to solve the puzzle.

When she turned the corner, he did not stop, continuing his maddening pace.

"I would like to keep you close by, today," he finally stated nonchalantly.

Then he yanked her to his side as he caught the swinging shackles midair, without turning.

The sudden force almost made her fall, but she managed to stumble into balance. Yes, there was something going on, something he wasn't telling her. She racked her mind, trying to think of reasons, but couldn't come up with a logical answer.

He wrapped the glittering chains around his wrist, and then took and shoved her arm under his left one. He hadn't been kidding when he said 'close by.' It didn't get much closer.

When she entered the throne room, there were several more guards stacked around the cathedra. She was surprised to see Drack and Savage, who she thought would be detained doing some mysterious business, but there they were, on each side like always.

The foot that usually separated her and the Sith was shortened considerably today. Now she could rest her head on the side of the throne, she could feel the cold prick of the stone and glass against her skin. They had nailed her restraints to the floor. Her apprehension was quickly morphing into outright panic. The extra bodies stuffed around her did not help her rising dread.

 _What's happening? What's going on?_

For once Maul was silent, his yellow-red eyes seared as he leaned forward, his right hand on her shoulder, digging into it, his other on his lightsaber.

What was coming? Who was coming?

Beyond comprehension, she realized that it had to be something that Maul feared, or at least respected enough so that he felt the need to ramp up his defenses.

Another Sith? She supposed that would have made sense, there could only be two.

But wouldn't the unknown Lord have come by now? Why give your rival more time to entrench himself?

Then, a whisper rustled within her like a welcoming breeze in summer. A dangerous hope bloomed irrationally, warming some of the numbness away. She now understood there could only be one answer.

What does a Sith fear most?

 _Jedi._


	21. Chess

So there they sat, awaiting the inevitable entrance of the Jedi on the loose. Petrified yet eager, Satine waited. Nevertheless, she knew that even if her friend lived, he would not be able to rescue her or himself. Almost the entire guard was on alert and in the courtroom with her.

The terrible trio of Maul, Savage, and Drack scrunched in next to her. The possibility of escape had never been lower. She very much doubted that even a Master like Yoda could spring her from the Sith's grasp. At this point it would take an army, right?

The ember of hope that had sparked within began to ebb into despair as the minutes passed. Maul remained tense, coiled on the edge. His hand would switch back and forth between her neck and his lightsaber. She could see him forming plans, judging, assessing as the cogs churned in his mind. If the Jedi came in through the doors, or maybe through the roof, how would he respond?

His sensible side rationalized that Obi-wan would be the most foolish man in existence if he waltzed right in. But that would be exactly what he would do, wouldn't it? Obviously, Kenobi would have a second phase, maybe he had contacted his worthless Padawan, but the odds were still stacked against him.

Allowing himself a smile, Maul fantasized about having not one but two Jedi imprisoned. If the boy did come to his Master's rescue, there would be no escape for either of them.

 _Another piece to add to my collection,_ he mused.

Quickly, his eyes shifted to the Duchess and then back to the door.

 _The Padawan will not be as fun to break._

Indeed, it would take a concerted effort to snap the boy. Perhaps there would be no point in trying.

He gave a subtle shrug.

 _Then I'll just have to kill him._

A thought struck him. His smirk became a wolf grin.

 _No, I'll kill Kenobi! Right before the boy's eyes. Like Master like Padawan…_

From Satine's memories he recalled the change in Obi-wan after his precious Qui-Gon was slain. The sickening bright glimmer on Obi's face faded into a stone-cold seriousness. His arrogant posture sunk with an unseen burden. His sky-blue eyes dimmed into a stormy navy, swirling ink. The only other time when the boy regained his youthful sparkle was around…

He took another gander at the Duchess.

Yes, and now he had taken even _that_ away. Happily, he played with the thought of being defeated. Even if the Jedi stood proudly over his corpse, there was never going to be a happy ending. Every time Kenobi looked at his beloved, he would see Sith.

The marks on her face were holding well, they looked just like he wanted them to—black lightning strikes that tore across her pale, soft features.

Reluctantly, he snapped his gaze away from the slumped, scarred woman. He had to remain on the alert.

But, there was no defeating him now. He had made it an ironclad impossibility. There was no point in contemplating about impracticalities now.

He skewered the chamber doors with his demonic stare.

* * *

Luckily, he had managed to slip in and out of notice before the influx of guards. Moments after scrambling back into the vent that led to the gardens, a horde of Death Watch stomped into the area. The signal had been weak, but he was sure that Anakin or another Jedi at the temple would understand. They had to.

Now Obi-wan saw the intent of Maul, saw his desire to catch the elusive Jedi. The place was littered, swarming with sentries. There was no going back.

He could wait until tomorrow, could wait for the heat to cool, but that would only make his hiding place all the more obvious. The Sith probably already knew how Kenobi had managed to avoid the guards, but he was waiting for Obi-wan to make the first move.

There was no doubt in the Jedi's mind—this was a move he had to make.

If he waited a few days, he would certainly be found, caught, and killed. If he struck, however weakly, he at least had an element of surprise. Nonetheless, it was imperative that Anakin, or anyone, came. He was the first to admit that he needed serious help.

So, as he pondered over how long it would take Anakin to plan, slip the Council's notice, and fly his way to Mandalore, Obi settled for reconnaissance. Like a skulking cat, he noiselessly crawled above the frantic Death Watch heads, searching the Force subtly.

The noise below him grew quiet, but there was electricity pumping in the air. Peeking out through a grill, he noted that he was close to the throne room. It was just down the hall and around the corner from where he hid. Soldiers were nowhere to be seen.

The sand-colored, muddied marble glimmered faintly in the quiet. It looked like Amidala's palace during the Trade Federation invasion after it had been evacuated—opulent, but eerily silent, the calm before a hurricane.

He nodded sagely. The time had come. It did not matter if it was ripe or not, it was becoming the sovereign will of the Force. There was no escaping, only submission.

The dread that had been festering in his chest since first coming here began to ease. The choice had been made; the course of history was set.

He only had to pull the trigger.

A resigned part of him wanted to face his demon right now. He could see himself plopping out of the ceiling, walking calmly into the belly of the beast, a thousand targets centered on his head. He would see Satine again.

"Satine…" he whispered in a sigh, and leaned against the metal, closing his eyes.

The hazy image of the farm and the children bubbled in his head. The more he gave into the dream, the more he desperately wanted it. More than anything he had wanted in his existence, he wanted to be with her, wanted to see her smile again.

He wanted to leave the Order. He wanted to start a family, far away from the war. He wanted to forget this nightmare ever happened. He wanted to sleep soundly at night. He wanted to put Qui-Gon to rest, and begin a new life with the woman he loved.

But he also wanted to be a Jedi. He did not want to abandon Anakin. Which meant that he could never have the one thing he truly desired with heart, soul, and mind—Satine.

With poignant sorrow, the dream began to wilt. The sun that shimmered upon her golden, corn silk hair dimmed; the children, the fields, the house, the smell of grass and unpolluted air vanished; and all that remained was her tender countenance that beamed down on him like spring daylight, until that, too, faded into black.

It was replaced by the machine that had repaired his heart after he lost Qui-Gon. He let the cold steel of a soldier's soul snuff out his humanity, until there was only one purpose, one resolve.

His eyes darkened into midnight.

As they did, his senses sharpened and he noted a subtle tremor in the Force. A flickering candle, he perceived that it was slowly burning its way toward him. He recognized the sensation, but he did not react or smile or breathe a sigh of relief.

 _Anakin._


	22. Duality

"Where is he?!" Maul snapped as he paced.

Back and forth he went, stomping in front of the throne's stepped platform. Satine was still chained down to the floor. Her legs were completely numb, her shoulders and back ached. She leaned against the icy cathedra, resting her weary head on the arm handle. Her eyes traced Maul as he marched.

Nostrils flared like a bull seeing red, the Sith had not let anyone leave for the entire day. Anytime a guard slumped, weak from standing with nothing to eat, Maul would cruelly strangle him with the Force as an example.

Though he would not kill the unfortunate soldier, his unconscious body would have to be dragged away.

The pinch of tingling nerves prickled up to her hips, the blood could not find a faster way to her feet. Unlike the Death Watch, she was perfectly used to having little to eat, and did not mind the ravenous hunger, or at least was not surprised by it.

With gaunt cheeks and lank hair, she presumed she had lost quite a bit of muscle over the past month. Her ribs could be felt poking out on her sides and her bones had nothing to protect them from the hardened ground. She felt like an old shirt that had been stretched out to the point where it could no longer snap back into its original shape. Like a ragged doll, a broken drum, a tattered blanket, she had become obsolete and decrepit.

It was a hollow feeling, a worthless existence, and yet she could not find any self-pity, could not conjure any more sorrow. The well of grief had run dry, there was only ash and dirt.

So, she stared without seeing. Of course she should have known that the Jedi wouldn't come. How foolish she had been to have hoped, if even for a second, that he would rescue her—snuffed candle, burned-out wick.

 _Ashes and dirt._

"Keep your pathetic thoughts to yourself!" Maul snarled at her, whisking around.

It had only been a matter of time before his anger turned to her. He leapt up the stairs in one bound, standing before her like a vengeful god. The pessimism became a terrifying void, and she trembled before his stare.

It seared like an inferno, a molten core—magma seemed mild in comparison.

Even after an eternity with him, she would never get used to his bottomless anger.

"What good is it to have bait when the fish isn't biting?!" he hissed down at her, his rasping voice slicing through the air.

She didn't know what to say, to do, to think.

"Are you good for anything?!" he continued, and his fingers subconsciously slipped toward his lightsaber.

Her eyes widened. Now? After all this time he was going to kill her?

He was heavily considering it. Perhaps the sight of her lifeless body would draw the Jedi in like the smell of rotting meat to a hungry beast. Then again, it might also take away his reason to stay. Certainly he would be angry, but would he have the stones to still take the Sith on?

Maul doubted it. His rival was an imbecile, but no man was that idiotic. But it would not be the first time that Obi-wan had surprised him. He was annoyingly good at that. He knew the Duchess was key to any plan, but the answer of how was eluding him.

The Sith turned away and began to pace again, deep in thought. She breathed a short sigh of relief. Her time had not yet come, after all.

All of his tactics involved some kind of physical pain. Maybe her screams would be too much for the Jedi. Would he come running to save her? Maul rather liked that path. He looked at her.

She was frail, withering, she wouldn't last more than a few minutes of torture, too little time to be of any use.

Perhaps he should spread a rumor that he was going to execute her—a large spectacle, right in the heart of the city. Jedi love a show. But, yet again, the work he would have to put in might give Kenobi just enough time to strategize. He needed Obi-wan to be rash, impatient. He needed him to run blindly into a trap, just like the first time.

His frustration was building. If another guard so much as coughed, he would snap him in two. His steps became heavy. He ground his teeth together, tried to find the missing puzzle piece.

The more he pondered, the more Satine grew fearful. What was happening beneath that murderous façade? She could see the wheels churning, he was scheming. It may have been the first time she had seen him at a loss for what his next move should be. He had hedged all of his bets on today.

The answer appeared quite simple to her, but she would be the last to tell Maul that. She had never been interested in war maneuvers, but her sister had. Many times, Bo-Katan would talk Satine's ear off, going on about ruthless, "traditional" Mandalorian strategy.

Before she could recall, she stopped herself. She did not think she had formed any concrete ideas, perhaps the Sith had not noticed her jumbled thoughts. She abruptly switched to images of a forest, to flowers, gardens, waterfalls, peaceful things.

He was not to be fooled. Immediately he saw right through her attempt to hide her thoughts from him.

Again, his gaze flicked devilishly to her, trying to pierce through her very flesh.

Slowly, methodically, he unbuckled his weapon and triggered it. The sound echoed throughout the deadly silent room. The world seemed to inhale.

Just as deliberately, he walked toward her, one step at a time. The closer he got, the more she began to panic once more. What was his plan? Was he going to slice her head off and run around the palace with it, like some sort of barbarian king?

He was right in front of her.

The heat coming off of the blood-red saber tickled her scarred cheek. Slowly, Maul crouched to her level.

"You know something," he quietly accused in a grotesque whisper.

The strands of black that ran over his cheeks were all she could see, she could not look into his piercing gaze, with those bestial eyes that stripped the marrow from bones.

Although she shook her head, her brain convulsed. It was betraying her. The forests were becoming less clear, giving way to Bo-Katan's impassioned face.

"No," he leaned in, his hoarse tenor even softer. "What aren't you telling me?"

The warmth of his lava-blade caused a flurry of sweat to spring up from the pores of her forehead. It began to drip and sting her eyes.

Hands shaking, skin paling, heart racing, she couldn't shake the fear, could not hold up the defenses of her mind as he probed.

 _I can't. I can't._ she pleaded worthlessly, shaking uncontrollably.

"Satine…" Maul purred, coaxing.

Savage chuckled.

She felt the first kiss of the lightsaber on her ear, it began to sear past her flesh. She flinched in pain and connected their gazes. The minute their eyes met her mind bellowed:

 _He'll come if he sees me alone!_

Instantly, the magmatic weapon was sheathed, and a reigning, bittersweet coolness soothed her pulsating flesh.

 _What have I done?_

Two tears, one for each eye, fell symmetrically down her mangled face. Dual puddles sat on each side of her clasped, shackled hands, glimmering against the faded marble.

"Of course!" Maul growled, and began to orchestrate another plan.

 _What have I done?_

The sting coming from her ear was the least of what she deserved.

 _What have I done?!_

Everything happened very quickly.

She was unlocked, the cuffs rattled to the ground, and she was pulled to her feet. In the haze of despair, she remembered she couldn't stand, for she had been sitting for hours. She stumbled and began to fall, but Maul caught her and held her steady. Then, he dragged her to the chamber doors. Stumbling, her legs felt detached from the rest of her body. She was caught in the gusts of a whirlwind, hurling toward the eye.

When they stood at the gates, he turned her, forcing her to look at him. He held her chin in a loose, gloved grip.

"Now, my pet," he said with new life, new malevolence. "All you have to do is sit out there and look like your usual self. Every now and then call the Jedi's name or start sobbing like a good damsel. You must make it believable, Satine. Make him believe you escaped. Fail me, and I will realize your greatest nightmares. These past weeks will seem like dreams in comparison."

As he instructed her, he placed an inconspicuous bug under her collar.

Then, he took one step back, nodded to a guard, who opened the panels, and, all without taking his eyes off her, said:

"Go."

A wind-up doll, she tottered past the doors, trying her best to remain on her feet. Every touch of garment, every wisp, was sensed in twenty-twenty. She felt the sway of her skirt tickle her thin, bony ankles. She felt the hem of her blouse as it wrapped around and under her arms, the pinch of air on her one, bare shoulder bone. She felt the tiny, metal bump that rubbed against her throat under the leather strap, reminding her with every step that she was a traitor.

* * *

She waited.

Maul had not said where she should go, where she should look. He seemed confident that Obi-wan was close, so she guessed she did not have to stray far.

The atrium was dim like the rest of the palace. There were no windows in this area, the ceiling was high, and artistic, painted circles swirled around her on the floor. During her reign, she kept the ground pristine, so one could appreciate the intricacy and beauty of the interlocking patterns below their feet. Now it was muddied with cracked boot-prints, ruining the effect.

The throne room doors stood magnificently next to her like the entrance to an indomitable fortress. Metal ribbed vaults criss-crossed above her in a Gothic style.

She took a moment to appreciate the bygone years, the ghosts of splendor that still managed to take her breath away. She felt small here, a lost, little girl who had stumbled into a cursed ruin. How odd it was to know that she had once designed and nurtured this place, that she had lived here a free woman. Maul had turned her home into a cage.

This space was the center of her palace, three separate hallways stood before her. The one to the south led outside.

 _I could run._

The moment the chamber room panels had closed behind her, she had the itch to escape, but Maul's warning kept blaring like a megaphone in her mind.

 _Fail me, and I will realize your greatest nightmares._

She did not have to think hard to understand exactly what that meant. He knew every pressure point, every vulnerable nerve. He probably even knew the fears that lurked deep within the recesses of her soul and brain, too unspeakable to comprehend. It was this premonition of terror that kept her feet glued to the floor, to one spot.

Her throat closed, she did not know what to do. She had never been so alone, yet so surrounded all at the same time. It was a paralyzing position.

He had said to call, to beckon and entice the Jedi.

 _Siren! Traitor!_ her spirit howled. _It would have been better for Obi if you were dead!_

The truth stung sharply, it yanked the strings of her heart until they snapped under the strain. Hadn't she just been sitting there? Hadn't she been a good dog? Now, so much was expected of her. What was she doing out here, all alone? She wanted to scratch at the door and cry, "Let me in! Let me back in!"

 _I can't._

She collapsed upon the floor and cradled her head in her hands, rocking back and forth.

"I can't do this. I can't do this," she mumbled, a tidal wave of tears spilled over the famished rims of her eyes, a much needed rain.

The emotion that had pooled behind the numb dam was splitting down the middle. It wasn't fair! It wasn't right! She was being left out to dry! Why was this happening to her?!

 _Traitor!_

 _Harlot!_

 _Servant of the Sith!_

"No! I didn't ask for this!" she countered, becoming frantic, panicking.

 _You should have killed yourself while you had the chance…_

The walls closed in. A sickening spotlight was centering on her, crushing her under its pressure. A part of her knew that this voice in her head was not her own, its cruelty went beyond self-loathing. Maul's face was behind it.

But she did not understand, could not comprehend. There was too much happening at once.

The berating continued.

 _Traitor! Traitor! Whore! Seducer! You are nothing! How could anyone love you? Delusional and pathetic._

"Stop," she snapped, losing it.

 _You're one of them!_

"No…"

 _You're no better than a Sith! Selfish!_

"No I'm not!" she cried, her trembling voice echoed back at her.

 _Look at yourself! Obi-wan can never be with you now._

She ran. The bite of reality was chomping on her, she had to go, had to find a way out. Searching, looking, yet she wasn't sure what for. The muscles in her legs had not been used this much in a lifetime, and she tripped, scraping her palms.

She leapt back up, had to, the voices in her mind were screaming like banshees.

 _Liar!_

"Help!" she yelled, wailing, screeching.

 _Traitor._

She darted around a corner, but the jury in her skull was eating her apart.

"Help! Help! HELP!"

 _Die. Die. Die!_

Nothing. No one. The mindless, senseless words were splitting her in half.

 _Guilty!_

She fell again, and this time she felt her knees split open. Sweat and tears were staining her desecrated cheeks. She put her forehead to the floor. One last time, one last breath, she bent backward, screaming with all her might at the ceiling:

"OBI!"

She buckled and fell head first into the ground.

She wept and curled into a ball, hair masking her marred features. She tried to drown out the accusations, but they would not leave her be. Like ghosts they haunted her. There was silence in the hallway, but chaos in her brain. She had no idea where she was, what she was doing.

Then, a light.

Through her tangled, dirtied tendrils, she saw a white illumination. For a moment, she pondered if she had died. No, it was still too real. It couldn't be. The noise was lessening, her brain was clearing the closer the radiance came.

 _Savior._

The lovely, peaceful ray was running towards her. It had legs, then a torso, then arms. It had a face, a beautiful face.

Yet there was pain and sorrow upon it, like a graveyard angel. In its full presence, the voices disintegrated. It reached out with its warm, leathery hand.

At its miraculous touch, sound came back.

"Satine?" she heard it ask—its tone was like chiming church bells, like the tinkle of rain drops, too perfect, too lovely.

 _My name._ she finally thought dumbly. _He knows my name._

"Yes?" she responded oddly, her own voice sounded wretched in comparison.

She heard him breathe a sigh of relief and an unintelligible mumble.

She knew that grumble. She had heard him mutter under his breath many times. The recognition exploded in her head, and she sprung up like an animal.

"Obi!" she gasped as she tackled him, wrapping her emaciated arms around his neck.

She heard his familiar laugh, and it was if they had never been separated. The addicting warmth of his person made her never want to let go. Likewise, even though she was literally half the person she used to be, he felt all the more defensive of her. She was even more of a delicate flower, one that needed a gentle, caring hand.

The urge to steal away her pain, to wipe her mind of all the nightmares and shadows, was overpowering. She did not deserve this. He felt her jagged bones nip his shoulders, and shame scorched his heart. He had failed. He had allowed his lily, his rose, his sunflower, to be trampled under Maul's boot. Where was he? Why didn't he try harder, escape faster?

She sensed his guilt. He was hugging her tightly and his head was bowed over her shoulder. His honeyed beard tickled her bare arm.

Reluctantly, she drew backward so she could study him.

There he was. Just like he had always been. Certainly thinner, but the grizzled whiskers and the cautious eyes and the crooked smirk that she loved were all there.

The tight grin disappeared when he saw her face, when he finally spotted the obsidian etches that mirrored perfectly the tattoos of the Sith. He frowned, and she saw the remorse explode within him.

Without thinking, he immediately cradled her cheeks in his hands. It was such a tender action. She had not known a soft touch in memory. Breathing in his usual, smoky scent, as if he had recently been in a wildfire, she leaned into him, not caring what he thought anymore.

"What…" he began, his voice hoarse—he was trying very hard not to alarm her.

He shook his head. Now was not the time. All that mattered was putting Maul's head on a plate.

She was clutching onto his wrist like it was a lifeline in a tsunami.

"Satine, we must leave. Now," he encouraged gently.

She was so fragile, so broken. He felt as if any sudden move would shatter her.

As if a child, she peered at him through the horrific, black scars; her cerulean diamonds sparkled despite their terrible surroundings. Her lip trembled.

"I can't," she whispered.

She tore his handsome fingers away from her face and clutched them in her own sickly ones.

"What do you mean?" he asked cautiously, though more distressed now, and tried to pull her off the ground. "We have to go."

With increasing panic, she tugged him toward her, refusing to move.

"Obi…" she croaked, exhausted while tears fell. "I'm too weak. I can't run anymore. Maul is coming."

The Jedi did not have to ask to know. Now he understood why she had been out here alone. With a nod, he kneeled in front of her. They clutched each other's hands, peered into one another's eyes like the last time they had been alone together, though under very different circumstances.

Finally, strained, he said:

"I will not leave you again."

Although her entire being seemed to be drawn to him like a magnet, she couldn't let him die for her. She loosened her grip a notch, her sea-colored irises watered.

"They'll kill you," she pleaded, beseeched, for she could almost hear the footsteps of the Death Watch. "You can still leave. You can still be free. There is nothing left for me, my love. Everything I've built, everyone I held dear, is dead. But you are a Jedi. The Republic needs you, the Council needs you. _Anakin_ needs you. What will happen to them, to him, if you die?"

This was why he loved her. Even in this unimaginable hell, she remained unselfish and pure. Although her shell was cracked, her soul was intact—as sweet as ambrosia, as pure as starlight.

He pulled one of his hands away from hers and lifted the back of it to the side of her face. Tenderly, he stroked her mutilations. Warmly, he smiled reassuringly down at her, his boyish beam crinkling his features. He still saw the girl he fell in love with, hidden but present behind Maul's cruelty. In return, she grinned back at him, infatuated with his kindness, something she had not known in weeks.

Although the world was about to crash around them, there was only this moment—a single instance of unpolluted, unadulterated adoration for one another.

His fingers lightly played on her chin and then traced her neck, finally resting upon the hideous collar. With a purposeful ease, he found and plucked the bug out from under the strap and squished it between his fingers in a puff of smoke.

She cocked her head. How did he know…?

The stomps of the Death Watch reverberated, there was no denying it now. They only had seconds.

His perplexing serenity spread to her, and when he stood to face the incoming throng, she ascended with him. A gentleman, he held her protectively behind him. Although he had no visible weapon, he carried himself like a king ready for battle. She basked in his radiating confidence, in his goodness of heart.

And, indeed, the storm came.

Within seconds, a squadron headed by Maul appeared on the scene, then two more battalions surrounded them. Like cockroaches, they sprung up from all sides. Unmistakably, Satine saw the divide, as clear as day, between good and evil in her presence. Like an invisible barrier, the two were separated, with Maul and his shadowy horde mirrored by the lone, shimmering Obi-wan, who glared but said nothing as he looked upon his nemesis with silent revulsion.

All her Jedi needed was a pair of white wings and the dualism would be complete.

"Well done, Satine, well done," Maul congratulated, trying to glance around Obi-wan's frame to look at her.

She clutched Obi's arm tightly, breathing deeply, wanting to never forget his scent, his presence, his posture, or any inch of him. She knew her time was running out, she would not be with her beloved for much longer.

Indeed, as the two Force-wielders gazed at one another, Maul barked:

"Take them. Bring her to me."

Obi-wan did not resist until she was wrenched away from his side. When the Death Watch horde swallowed the two, he recoiled, and his brow furrowed in an intense glare. It looked as if things would come to blows, but at the last second, she was able to wiggle away and place a gentle hand on his strong shoulder.

Penitently, he looked down at her, his sky-blue gaze softened. She smiled weakly.

"Another day," she whispered lovingly.

Soothed by her calming presence, he held out his hands for the cuffs.

She was not able to remain with him for long—the masked, groping gloves of a dozen soldiers enveloped her and then transferred her to the Sith. All the while, she tried to find Obi's luminous face in the crowd.

As if teleported, she was returned to her demonic keeper. Drack was in charge of keeping an eye on Obi-wan, with Savage's eager assistance, so it was just her and Maul in front of the group.

He was pleased, but she could tell he was annoyed by the pair's obvious affection. Tauntingly, he slipped a hand around her famished waist, right in front of the Jedi, who narrowed his eyes. The group began walking back toward the throne. It was a quiet march with an air of morbidity—like a funeral procession or striding slowly down the green mile to the electric chair.

 _This is the end._ she thought sadly.

She hung her head and tried to ignore the clutch of the Sith's gnarled claw on her hip.

Obi-wan did not look over his shoulder, did not give away his cards, but he felt the pair of unseen eyes burning into his back as he walked. He prayed that his adversary's arrogance would blind him long enough for the Jedi to land a deathblow.


	23. Boom

Satine limped along, trying to keep her sobs silent as she strode. Each step was agony, knowing that Obi-wan was certainly about to be executed. It was all her fault.

Each time she tried to peek over her shoulder at the Jedi, she was met with a smack of the Force and Maul's murderous stare. She couldn't help it! The desire was too powerful, she had to see him one last time, had to make the most of this moment.

He made her feel alive again. He chased away the icy numb that threatened to swallow her. Her future was bleak now, for Obi would be dead in a matter of hours, perhaps minutes. There was nothing to protect her from the gulf of apathy and pain that awaited her. She could feel the shadowy tendrils begin to wrap around her legs. Soon they would pull her footing out from under her, and the seed of virtue that struggled to survive within would finally be decimated.

Quickly, too quickly, they arrived back at the front doors. The Sith turned around, his arm still curled around the Duchess like a snake. He was practically vibrating with glee, though his face remained neutral, business-like. His prize would not escape him this time.

Kenobi glared fiercely back, he would not be intimidated by a coward.

Gluttonously, Satine studied the Jedi, she had to remember everything about him. Time and pain would not take this away from her. Even if she was eaten by the void, at least her tragic memories would keep her company.

Drack and Savage stood on each side of Obi, along with a throng of Death Watch. Opress was less concerned about keeping a straight face like his brother. His smile was terrible to behold. Satine wondered if this was the last thing her people saw before they were slaughtered in the streets below.

No words were said, the atmosphere was bubbling with anticipation.

"At last," Maul finally spat, his rasp echoing. "At last I will have my vengeance."

Obi-wan said nothing. He did not look away, he did not appear ashamed or afraid.

Satine's heart clenched at the sight of his bravery. He was the last sparkle in a supernova, before the black hole sucked in all light. He would take her soul with him to the grave, she was sure.

Harshly, she was pulled around, forced to peer forward as they proceeded into the throne room. She prayed with all her might that Maul would drag it out, that he would monologue for a few more minutes.

This was not the case.

In a blur, a terrible blink of an eye, Obi-wan was shoved to the middle of the area and forced to his knees. Drack ruthlessly snagged the Jedi's bourbon-colored hair and wrenched it backward. In defiance, Obi's eyes remained fixed on the Sith.

A single ray of sunlight escaped from behind the thick curtains and cut across the Jedi's chest. He was wearing a large, faded tunic, three sizes too big for him at least. It glimmered like snow in the darkness.

It was something out of a dream, out of a nightmare. She watched on, helpless. What could she do? There was nothing. She had nothing left.

Although he didn't look at her, she hungrily stared at him, unable to tear her eyes away.

Maul cleared his throat.

"Before I kill you," he announced nonchalantly. "I want to know who else is here with you."

Obi remained silent. His face did not portray an ounce of surprise.

"I see," the Sith continued smoothly, triggering his two sabers as he spoke, one black and one red. "It does not matter. I will find them and I will make their deaths as slow and as painful as possible. I wish they could be here to see _your_ death, Kenobi. It would make for a good story. The boy who was too weak to save his own Master is killed while his own apprentice looks just as helplessly on. I revel in the symmetry."

Again, the Jedi gave nothing away on the surface, but Maul sensed his anger building.

"Yes, I know about your precious, former ward," he taunted as he strode toward Obi-wan. "Satine has told me _all_ about him. Anakin, is it?"

Obi flinched.

The two weapons bobbed up and down as the Sith walked. Subconsciously, Satine took a step forward, unable to stop herself. Immediately Savage pounced, restraining her hands behind her back. The unholy strength that coursed through his body was unleashed upon her. If she thought that Maul had a vice grip, it was a drop in the ocean compared to his brother's.

Beaten down, she did not fight him, but tried to lean forward, tried to get just a little closer to her doomed beloved.

"The Chosen One?" Maul scoffed, he was a yard away from the Jedi. "Please. I thought you knew better than to believe in fairytales, Kenobi. But you're just as weak as Qui-Gon."

At the mention of his Padawan and former Master's names, Obi-wan deepened his ferocious glare. His lip curled, but he continued his silent protest.

The Dathomirian poured salt in the wounds.

"Do you know what his last feelings were?" Maul practically whispered as he stood over his adversary. "He was _afraid_."

The Sith crisscrossed his blades in front of Obi-wan's neck like shears about to cut away weeds.

"He didn't fear death, mind you," Maul hooted, grinning. "He only worried about the boy, the bastard of a _slave!_ Does that make you angry, Jedi? That your own Master cared more about a freakish runt than you?"

Obi-wan clenched his jaw, kept his lips tight, unfazed by the burning sabers at his neck.

"It's frustrating isn't it?" the Sith's weapons closed in, and Satine could see the blades start to burn the flesh, she could smell it. "Giving your life to a cause, only to have it turn its back on you?"

As the Sith hissed between snake-teeth, as his weapons seared into Obi-wan's skin, the Jedi growled, trying to mask his groans of pain. His nostrils flared, his hands were tightly wound into fists at his sides. Drack kept his head steady as Kenobi quivered.

Still, Obi did not feed into Maul's monologue. Only short breaths of agony escaped his mouth.

But the Sith knew exactly what to end with, he knew what would entice the Jedi to lose control before he was eliminated.

"Your ex-Padawan may not be here to witness your death, but I know who is," and he turned to look over his shoulder at Satine, who stood trembling against the massive frame of Savage. "I'm saving the best for last, Obi-wan."

Horned head, devilish king, Lucifer incarnate, Maul leaned in and whispered in the Jedi's ear:

"She will continue my bloodline."

For the first time since his capture, Obi flicked his eyes to her. They were frightened. He was scared.

If she could not speak or plead or move, she could at least feel. He would not go the grave like this. A solemn goodbye, a last-minute present, she stored up all the emotions she could. Wistfully, desperately, she recalled all the times Obi had made her laugh and cry, angry or sad, but most all she thought upon the moments when it felt her heart would burst because of the overpowering affection she held for him.

In a tidal wave, pouring out all she had, she let herself implode. Although most of the room didn't even notice, the three Force-wielders reacted powerfully to the explosion.

Savage snarled in a fierce rage and crushed her arms beneath his grip. Her bones snapped in two and she cried out.

Like a twitching bug, Maul cocked his head, as if hearing a sharp whistle. For a moment, he was distracted, and he bared his rotting teeth at her.

Although her sight was blurry, she saw the impact of her gift as it hit Obi-wan like a sledgehammer. The terror on his face gave way to intense peace. He closed his eyes for a moment, lost in the euphoria of her love. More importantly, it gave him the opportunity, with lids still shut, to cry:

"Now!"

Maul whipped back around and closed the blades, but it was too late.

"No!" he screeched as the world collapsed around him, as Obi-wan leaped deftly backward and disappeared in the cascading dust, evading his beheading.

The ground shook beneath them, rocking like an earthquake. Pieces and whole sections of roof crumbled in. Savage let go. Cries and screams could be heard all around. Drack was barking orders, but then his voice cut off suddenly.

Satine fell, blood was rushing in her ears. She couldn't see anything. The dust was blotting everything out. She tasted salt and copper in her mouth. Four lights could be seen in the distance: Two blue, two green.

The edges of her vision were blackening. A sharp pain sprouted from the back of her head, from her forearms, everywhere. She curled into a defensive ball. Chunks of rock were still collapsing all around. The two blue lights in the distance were clashing against dual red ones.

Then, a hand wrapped tightly around her upper arm and yanked her upward.

It was calloused, but small. The fingers were slight and strong. They tugged her away. Vision swirling, she could barely process what was happening. It was like an erupting volcano. The marble was cracked and ragged beneath her feet as she struggled to run.

Two white and blue, elegant horns and an orange head bobbed in front of her. She recognized it from somewhere.

"C'mon! C'mon! Keep running, Duchess!" a young voice kept yelling.

Another explosion sounded, a flurry of cries broke out. She lost her footing and so did her guide. But she was hauled back upward, she kept going. The fighting, flickering lights had shifted—they were on the other side of the room.

In one ear she heard:

"No! No! NO!"

It was coming from Maul. His normal, soft rasp was becoming an insane roar. It did not appear that he could make the sounds that were escaping his cracked lips. He saw the Duchess and the Togruta brat sprinting away, but he could not focus enough to block their escape.

Every time he tried to shift toward them, Obi-wan, now equipped with his lightsaber, would be there to pound him relentlessly with a flurry of strikes.

Anakin was taking on the difficult task of Savage. Instead of matching him brawn to brawn, he was ducking and diving out of the brute's way, utilizing his superior quickness.

Drack was nowhere to be seen—a falling piece of pillar had crushed him underneath. The Death Watch was in chaos, trying to avoid the debris more than anything. The soldiers were leaderless, confused, and completely unaware of the battle taking place before their blinded eyes.

The Jedi only needed a bit more time, another few moments.

With a sickening, toe-curling cry, Maul descended upon his rival, completely unleashed.

In the battleground haze, Satine noticed the massive frame of the door. In seconds she and her friend were through the panels, and into the much less clouded hallway. Satine's broken arms swung limply; she shuffled pathetically as the helpful hand clutched her shoulder. She could hear the groans of her escort, she could hear the girl say:

"Don't give up now! Just a little further! That's it! Just a bit more…"

Another scream echoed from behind them.

"Ah!" Obi-wan yelled, and limped backward.

The dust was beginning to settle, but pebbles and dirt were still dropping from the ceiling. A large hole had been blasted in it, and discordant rays of sunshine beamed in.

Maul had tagged him in the side, and he felt blood begin to rush to the wound. Just in time, he held his lightsaber up to block the incoming, savage attack. The look in his opponent's eyes was crazed, but his assaults were perfect, calculated.

Anakin glanced briefly Kenobi's way, but managed to keep infuriating Savage, who snorted, roared, and charged like a bull just to come up with nothing but air.

"Master…" the young Jedi implied, raising his eyebrows as he crouched on a large, toppled column, jumping away from dual-blade of Opress.

The shimmer of the Death Watch faceguards could be seen. Obi nodded. It was time.

"Right, right," he grunted, parrying Maul.

Anakin pressed a button on his wrist and another boom sounded, completely caving in another large section of the ceiling. Not one to give up, Maul lashed out one last time, before an avalanche of wreckage fell between him and Obi-wan.

Expertly, the Jedi knight managed to dodge it, but just barely. There was a clean cut through his shirt.

"Let's go!" Anakin yelled, and he began twirling and jumping through the air, climbing.

Less athletically, Obi followed. As soon as they were seen, away from the dust clouds, blasters came up haphazardly from below. But by then, they had gotten to the roof.

"R2, get the ship ready!" Skywalker barked into his communicator.

He held a hand out for his friend, who took it heavily, and pulled him onto the crumbling brick. The wound was beginning to take effect, but Obi kept it to himself. Wasting no time, the two sprinted away, leaving their enemies behind.

* * *

They were closing in on the main entryway when Satine heard other footsteps, echoing cries cropping up behind her. She had to warn her friend, but she couldn't conjure words, her lungs were famished. Thankfully, her companion also noticed and increased their pace.

"Hurry! Hurry! We're so close!"

Like a heavenly light, the Duchess could see bright sunshine at the end of the corridor. It instilled in her a primordial instinct to survive.

 _Run. Run. Run. Fly!_

The heavy stomps of boots were gaining, the sound of a blaster rang out. Instantaneously, two brilliant emerald lights shone out in front of her, and she recognized them for what they were: lightsabers.

 _Jedi!_

The dancing jade blades swerved through the air. Without looking back, her guide blocked the incoming gunshots aimed at their heads.

"Don't stop! Keep going!"

Satine was beginning to put the pieces together in her jumbled mind. The Jedi in front of her was certainly a youngling, but she was well trained—a prodigy, no doubt. She supposed she would learn, or remember, her name later.

Right now she was focused on keeping her balance as the two darted for the open sky. The high-pitched shrill of blaster fire rang out all around them now. Occasionally, Satine would feel a glimmer of heat sing past her neck.

"Wher…where's…?" she tried to choke out.

She was losing energy, the small dosage of adrenaline was wearing thin, but it seemed the two of them had a long way to go. She could almost feel the sunlight on her face, could almost taste the air. They were so close, only another dash, another couple yards or so.

"Satine!" a lone growl pierced the air, louder than the rain of bombardment.

It was like running into a brick wall.

 _Maul._

"No! Not now!" the youngling wailed when the Duchess began to slow.

They had passed the entryway, they were in the light. It blinded her. They had to slow down, she couldn't see. She couldn't see!

"Wai…wait!" she wheezed.

But the young one would not stop. She did not hesitate, she kept her breakneck speed.

Somewhere in the distance, she heard the whine of an engine, of thrusters.

"Satine! Get back here!" came another merciless command.

Like an arrow it impaled her through the spine. She started to resist, started to scramble backward.

"Don't listen to him, Duchess Satine! Fight it!"

Unmistakably, she heard sounds of a ship careening toward them. If she squinted, she could just make out the pointed wings, the glossiness of the windshield. Still, the Force-laced order from Maul overrided all reasonable sense. Weakly, she tugged back, but her arms were broken, she had no strength to answer his call.

Obi-wan saw it as clear as day from the cargo hold.

He and Anakin felt it in the Force like a massive ripple.

Ahsoka was dragging a ragged Satine toward the edge of the opulent plateau. They were going to jump and make a hasty escape, but the Sith and what was left of the Death Watch horde were catching up, perhaps a hundred feet away.

Maul and Savage were dashing past their paltry, mangled group of minions, with hands outstretched, trying to snag their prey. They were almost in range.

"I've got to get down there…" Obi groaned, holding his bleeding side.

The plan had been simple. Distract the Sith long enough to litter the palace with explosives. In the confusion, he and Anakin would take on Maul and Savage just long enough for Ahsoka and Satine to make an escape.

All had gone relatively smoothly, but the gash in Obi-wan's side had proved more costly than he originally thought. They had to leave sooner than they would have liked.

Now there was no time.

He saw it happening—Ahsoka might escape, but Satine would be caught. They'd have to start all over, but by that time, it would be hopeless. How long could they continue this game? Obi did not have the stomach for another bout.

"You can't! You're too wounded! You'll get yourself killed!" Anakin pointed out, gazing worriedly over his shoulder from the pilot's seat.

"No," the Jedi Knight demanded, and his former pupil could tell there would be no reasoning with him. "I have to get her. They won't make it."

Anakin sighed, the scar over his right eye pulled down as he frowned.

"I just got you back, so don't do anything stupid."

Obi cocked a smirk, and Anakin mirrored him.

"What could possibly go wrong?" Kenobi muttered, trying to lighten the somber mood as he sprang into action.

The ship was close enough to the man-made mesa that he could make the jump. Or so he thought. The ramp opened up, and the wind almost blew him off his feet, but he steadied himself. Taking a breath, sucking in the pain, he got a running start and flew through the air.

From sheer will alone, he tumbled onto the grounds. Not a perfect landing, it would do, but it stole the air from his lungs. Rolling to his feet, breathing hard, he started to make his way toward the pair. He could tell Ahsoka was relieved to see him, but Satine was looking back, trying to get away.

 _The Sith's hold on her is strong…_ he thought sadly.

"Ahsoka!" he cried out, and she waved shortly at him.

"You gotta help! She won't listen to me! That Maul's got some sorta spell on her!"

It was just as he feared. Luckily, though heartbreakingly, she would never put up enough resistance to actually get away from the youngling. It reminded him of an abused, three-legged dog still trying to get back to its cruel owner, even though it was the source of its pain.

"Give her to me. Keep those blasters off us."

The headstrong Padawan nodded, gently shifting Satine to Obi-wan and then twirling back around, her sabers ready for action.

"Satine," Obi said gently, not stopping, he moved just as quickly.

For a brief moment, she turned to peer at him, but her eyes were glazed over. All she could think about was answering, obeying. He needed to get her as far away as possible.

They were at the ledge.

The deafening roar of the ship plugged her hearing, but the itch, the unbearable scratch, to run back to the Sith was pulsing through her blood. The ramp was only a foot away from the plateau.

"Can she make it, Master?" Ahsoka yelled over the engines and the gunfire, expertly deflecting.

He didn't say anything, but he began to board the ship with Satine in tow nonetheless.

They were going too slowly.

He had to make a decision.

Although Satine couldn't see or notice his face, Obi-wan looked upon her bittersweetly and then planted a solemn kiss on her forehead. He closed his eyes for a brief second.

 _It ends today._

"Ahsoka! Get her to the ship! I'll take over!" he snapped suddenly.

Although the youngling hesitated, she obeyed. Grabbing the same shoulder, she tried her best to half-lead, half-carry the desecrated, moonstruck woman onto the ship. The Sith were close, Obi-wan could feel their pull, their attempts to keep the ship from moving.

If they got any closer, they would certainly succeed.

They needed more time.

He charged into the throng.


	24. Duchess

_Satine!_

 _Get back here!_

Wildly, she struggled against the wiry arms that held her back. The ramp was still open, and a fierce wind billowed throughout the ship, violently ruffling her hair and tattered clothes.

"I've…got…I have…" she sputtered, ignoring the radiating ache that stretched from her shoulders to her wrists.

"Uh…Master?" Ahsoka grunted, baffled by the Duchess. "Little help?"

But Anakin was watching in horror as Obi-wan ran toward the Sith.

"What is he doing?!" he exclaimed angrily, though his eyes betrayed his worry.

The Jedi Knight was sprinting full-throttle, but Anakin could see his slight limp. There wasn't a snowball's chance in Mustafar that he would make it out alive. Decidedly, quickly, Skywalker flipped a switch, steadied the ship, and began to make his way toward the exit, lightsaber already triggered.

"Wait!" his young Padawan pleaded as she still fought with Satine. "What about the Duchess? What about the ship? Where are you going?!"

"I can't just leave him there, Snips," her Master snapped back as he crouched, ready to spring.

"You can't just leave us either!"

That got his attention and he paused.

It was killing Ahsoka to have to do this, but she knew this rashness would only make things worse. Obi-wan was already halfway across the plateau, just a few yards from Maul. She could sense him, could sense the Sith, about to engage. Even if they left now, they couldn't save him.

"If you go, then all of this, his sacrifice, would be for nothing."

He knew her words were true, and his throat clenched as he glared. Obi-wan's sprinting form was getting further away. If he squinted, he could just make out the blue lightsaber, flickering, fighting, losing.

How could he leave him here? He had never left a man behind, especially not a friend, not another Jedi.

Then, a gut-wrenching cry echoed from the battlefield—Kenobi.

It split Anakin's gut in two, and he had to hold onto the rail to keep himself upright. Ahsoka's lip trembled, she shed a tear, loosened her grip.

Satine's struggling ceased. It was as if she had emerged from a senseless, pitch-black ocean—she popped the bubble.

"Obi?" she whispered to herself, though it sounded like a frightened babe calling for its parent.

That was him. That was his voice. It reverberated ruthlessly through her, shredding her to the core.

Skywalker's head bowed, he was trying very hard not to lose it. He rocked on the balls of his feet, his hands were in tight fists. With every passing moment he saw Maul in his head, saw his enemy winning, saw his defeated Master begging for death at his nemesis's feet.

"I can't leave him," he said, strained, wounded, and pierced to the heart. "He wouldn't have left me."

The attention was shifting to their ship, the Jedi could sense that the Sith would be after them very soon. They had limited time, but Obi-wan had given them a window.

"But this is what he wanted," Ahsoka responded softly, even as the urgency built. "His sacrifice can't be for nothing, Anakin."

With a dissipating hope, Skywalker took one last look, tried to see his Master, tried to feel his life-force. Then, the blasters started to ring out, fired at the floating fighter. They had no more time.

"Let's go."

The words felt like mud. He wanted to spit out his anger and shame, but he swallowed it instead.

The mood became somber, suffocating, as Anakin dashed back to the pilot seat. Although the scene played out before him, he did not look at it, did not let his eyes gravitate toward the static white dot in a sea of pulsating black.

Satine's mind began to work very quickly. The haze of Maul's power evaporated, but the damage had been done. A lone blaster sat in the dust under one of the seats.

"Wait," she said suddenly, lucidly.

The pair peered warily toward her.

She turned to try and look Ahsoka in the eyes, tried to make her understand. The young Togruta girl was small, but strong; edgy and confident, yet graceful. She reminded Satine very much of her sister. There was something in the way they both carried themselves, thinking they had to prove the world wrong. The Duchess saw a great conflict within the youngling's big, doe eyes. She may have played the naive, immature apprentice, but there was a sharp cleverness, a budding perception.

Yes, certainly a prodigy, but she did not know everything. There were some things training or meditation or even an intimate relationship with the Force couldn't explain.

This was one of those times.

"I can save him," Satine said without apprehension. It was not a statement, but a command.

A war-cry resounded, rippling toward them.

"Duchess…" the Padawan said with great pity on her features.

Anakin said nothing. His lips were tight, his eyes watchful. He saw her plan, knew what she was intending to do.

Satine glowered, angered by the girl's presumptions, her tone of superiority. She had much to learn.

"Save me your speech, young one," she growled against the howling wind, causing Ahsoka to flinch. "Obi is alive and I mean to keep it that way."

Before the two could blink, Satine broke free of the young Jedi's hold and snagged the gun off the ground. Thinking that she meant to use it on her, Ahsoka drew her lightsabers, eyes narrowed.

Satine smirked, amused, but did not lower the barrel. The action of grasping the handle of the gun sent a shockwave of agony throughout her forearms.

She ignored it, waiting for a new bout of adrenaline to ease the suffering.

"Wait for my signal. It'll be obvious. You'll have to be quick if this is to work," she told each of them vaguely, holding their gazes.

"What are you talking about?!" the Padawan cried, thoroughly irritated. "You just got out, and now you're going back in?!"

Having no time for such things, Satine peered knowingly at Anakin. He gave a slight nod, his jaw firmly clenched. Astounded, Ahsoka whisked her head back and forth between them, completely mystified.

"What is going on?!"

"Go," Skywalker said with his permanent frown, ignoring his Padawan, turning back to the controls. "I can give you ten minutes."

But Satine was already gone. Haphazardly, she leapt the distance to the plateau, stumbling as her calloused toes hit the ground. She sprinted like an apocalypse was nipping her heels. No more thought of pain or fear, she only felt the crunch of her bare feet on the gravel, the heat on her neck, the wind in her hair, the gun as it bobbed against her lower back, now tucked into her skirt. It was probably the most free she had felt in her entire life.

Tunnel-vision, her eyes scanned for anything, any hope at all. The horde became alerted to her presence, but she did not raise her weapon, did not slow down. The two parties were on a collision course, like meteors.

She heard as the ramp closed into the hatch, as the engines roared to life and zoomed away behind her. She prayed that Obi's opinion of Anakin was well-grounded. The entire scheme rested on his good timing.

The closer she got to the charging Death Watch, the more she feigned stupidity. She glazed her eyes, she numbed her brain and thoughts until there was one sole purpose:

S _atine! Get back here!_

The Sith's power in those words held sway, but she flirted with the edges, never letting it fully consume her. Obi's scream still uprooted everything, and she floated. She knew she would have to cling tightly to that horrific sound as she entered back into Maul's influence.

The soldiers coming toward her stopped, dropped to a knee, and began to take aim.

She only increased her pace. She could see Maul's gnarled, horned head peeking just above his throng of guards. He had to have sensed her by now.

 _Satine! Get back here!_

The Death Watch uniforms were in tatters, and many of the face-guards were cracked or completely shattered. For the first time she saw bits and pieces of men—a blue eye, a stubbly chin, a crooked, broken nose. All were focused on her. She barely paid attention to the warning calls.

"Halt!"

"Stop!"

"Wait," came a dry, but powerful command, and the guns were lowered. The readied men looked back.

The Sith pushed their way to the front.

No time to think, no time to go against the feeling in her gut, she ran right into Maul.

 _Satine! Get back here!_

He was too strong to be bowled over by her slight, withered frame, but that was not her intention. The Death Watch and Savage watched in disbelief as she threw her arms around Maul's neck and embraced him obsessively.

Then, with a blank head and heart, she pulled back just long enough to look him dumbly in the eyes before she landed a kiss on his dirtied, split lip.

Completely derailed, his bloodshot, jaundiced eyes widened.

A pained groan sounded from behind Maul, but she took notice. The plateau was silent, only wind whistled, only a sputtering, dying mumble echoed.

After a second, the Sith threw her backward savagely, hating that she took him off guard. Somehow she managed to balance and fall to one knee. He triggered his traditional red lightsaber and took a menacing step toward her.

Supplicating, she held her hands out, as if offering, and hung her head like a beaten slave.

"I've did as you asked, Master!" she cried out.

To prove it she repeated in her mind once more:

 _Satine! Get back here!_

He halted his progression. All heads turned toward him.

Although he did not sheath his blade he said, rasping:

"So you have."

Although covered in dust with a gash across his cheek and a few of his pointed antlers snapped in half, the Dathomirian still carried himself like he always did.

Satine kept her head down, awaiting the next order.

Keeping an eye on her, he wiped his mouth and jerked his chin at Savage, who lumbered to his side—lightsaber in his massive fist. Like his brother, he looked upon her with acute incredulity.

"Ready the fighters. Get that ship. I want the boy alive," Maul hissed, spitting on the ground as he did. "Kill the girl."

Opress appraised Satine's kneeled form for another moment and then sprinted off with half of the remaining Death Watch. He roared an order and was gone.

It took all of her concentration to remain in her position. Her scraped knee stung against the rough, rocky ground. Pieces of pebbles crunched into her open wounds. A bead of sweat slipped down her sun-kissed back.

Maul turned all of his attention on her.

His gaze searched, she could feel him trying to probe her thoughts. She put up no defense as she let herself be ripped open and gutted.

There was only a small island in the back of her head where she attempted to keep all free will, hiding it from his sight.

The past weeks had prepared her for this.

The Sith's groping fingers finally subsided, he appeared relatively appeased.

"Get up," he barked.

Immediately, she complied. Her eyes wide and unassuming, she cocked her head innocently, dazed. She wiggled her toes on the hot pavement. The broken arms helped her appear even more doll-like, childlike, as they swayed floppily.

He cackled drily at her condition and then approached her. With his spiderlike index finger and thumb, he held her blood-stained chin. Again, he attempted to hollow her, tried to find a hidden sentiment as his volcanic gaze analyzed her impassive face.

At last, he narrowed his eyes and swung an arm around her bruised, scratched shoulders. He began leading her toward the heart of his group. The ravaged soldiers parted for them.

"You did a very bad thing, pet," he patronized condescendingly as they walked.

As if ashamed by her actions, she whimpered. It was no act—she let herself be taken by his pull. The shadows of his presence invaded and flooded her being.

The link that she had resisted for weeks was intensifying, crystallizing. His desires were encroaching upon her, but she kept the speck of will untainted. The tides of black waves washed over it, perhaps the Sith did not sense it.

"But I suppose it doesn't matter," he mused, his gruesome paw was heavy on her, like a lead blanket. "Everything is happening just as I foresaw."

She smiled up at him, conjuring an intense happiness.

Although he seemed to have taken her back, to trust her, there was a suspicion on his molten features. She guessed he was about to test her dedication.

Indeed he was.

The last of the ragged, bleeding guards parted and, just as she turned her head forward, she saw him. In slow motion, she felt the Sith's intense stare on her, studying, watching, probing, as she blankly considered the form that was curled before her feet.

Obi-wan.

He was still alive, but he was not whole. Numbly she noted the severed arm that sat unassertively a few feet back, and the burned, cauterized stench of seared flesh. The dislodged appendage was still curled in a fist, clutching his sheathed lightsaber.

With his other, attached hand, he was holding his bloody side, fingers shaking as he reached for an arm that no longer existed. His eyes roamed, and she could see countless burn-holes from blasters scattered throughout his mangled person. She supposed he was about to go into shock.

Although the desire to help him was building in her cranium, she ignored it, forced it to disappear—she kept her mask intact. Passively, she peered once more to Maul. He did not seem convinced.

"Do you feel anything for this man?" he asked as his presence still scoured through her, looking under every rock.

She deliberately glanced down again. The Jedi trembled and shook, gurgled and spat-up.

Taking a few seconds, she finally shook her head.

"Hm," Maul harrumphed.

He left her side to crouch next to the downed Jedi. With his cruel, black-clothed hand he snagged Kenobi's hair and lifted his cracked head. Obi whimpered, but his words were unintelligible.

"Look him in the eyes," the Sith snarled at her, frustrated by her cavalier attitude. "Tell me what you think of him."

Obi-wan's dirtied, stained beard was disturbingly familiar. It seemed he was always covered in mud and his own blood. Although he was in too much pain to notice her, she analyzed him from top to bottom. Every so often she noticed chunks of him were missing—the tip of an ear or a finger, or maybe a piece of his ankle.

Again, after a couple of moments she flicked her cool gaze back to Maul.

"I don't think anything of him, my Lord," she answered robotically.

Irritated, the Dathomirian tossed Kenobi's head back to the ground harshly and leapt quickly to his feet, his face in a bone-chilling glower.

"You're lying, Satine."

Before she could breathe, Maul was on her, a brutal claw around her neck, choking the life from her.

"Do you think I'm a fool?" he hissed, spit flying. "There's no possible way that _you_ escaped the Jedi."

She only waited, stared, struggled to find air. Her weeks of unending torment had equipped her nicely for moments like these. The icy cold of apathy held up against his ferocious anger.

A blood vessel in her eye snapped. Maul let go.

Down on all fours, she gasped as her palms hit the ground. The anguish of her severed bones made the edges of her vision blacken, her palm slipped out from under her, and she had to lie on her side. Her tattooed cheek rested on the boiling surface.

When the oxygen began to flow again, she sat back, chest heaving. Her skirt had torn in several places, the slit had expanded and showed her entire leg. The gun remained undisturbed. Patches of gashes splintered across her corset. Her lip had finally stopped bleeding but left a crimson trail.

"I...I..." she panted and gulped. "...I took the youngling off guard. I pretended I was on their side and then I ran as fast as I could. You must believe me, Master!"

On her knees she shuffled up to him and groveled at his feet.

It seemed plausible, but he still had his doubts.

With a swift kick, he sent her flying backward again.

She felt at least two more breath-stealing snaps from her ribs. A burst of red sputtered from her mouth and tainted the ground, but her eyes remained upon the Sith nonetheless.

Maul took to stomping around. With each step he increased his hold on her. Nothing new was revealed. All of her feelings and thoughts were attuned to his. There was nothing that suggested rebellion.

The questions of how and why were bothering him.

In her mind she kept repeating his order. Had it really been so powerful? He had certainly expended a great amount of energy. With his own eyes he saw how she began to immediately struggle with the Padawan after hearing his call, trying to get back to him. There was certifiable proof, but something was still nagging him.

He glanced at her.

Her entire expression was completely oblivious to the fact that her lover was dying just a foot away, writhing in the dirt. He thought of the embrace, thought of how she had run with all her might, even though it was clear she was badly injured. When she came to him, she hadn't even tried to look at her precious Jedi.

 _I've done it,_ he thought to himself. His usual malevolent leer began to stretch.

He couldn't resist an opportunity to revel in his own arrogance.

Cocking her head at him, she saw his smile and beamed back with her crimson-smeared mouth, thrilled that he was pleased with her. All eyes were on the Sith. It seemed even the soldiers were convinced. The outspoken Duchess Satine had finally been tamed.

Maul crooked a finger at her.

"Come here," he cooed.

Despite her decrepit state, she burst off from the ground like a rocket and ran over to him, jumping over Obi-wan as she did. The tips of her toes just barely grazed his honeyed hair.

Digging her heels in at the last moment, she stopped just an inch away from Maul's chest. He reached out and snagged her arms to hold her steady. She did not flinch or wince, even though he was deliberately prodding the split bones with his fingers.

The pain was certainly there but, like all other feelings, she let it go. Looking upon this scene, the Sith had achieved everything he ever wanted. The Jedi may have stormed the castle, but his treasure only grew.

His obsession with revenge, all those years in a garbage can, would finally be realized.

There was only one more test, and he would know for certain she was broken.

He let go of her wrists but turned her around, his hands on her shoulders. Carefully, he led her to the Obi-wan, whose brilliant blues still ran in circles. He was shaking violently, a cold sweat sprouted all over his skin.

Maul leaned in.

"Should I put him out of his misery?"

He had asked her this question before. For a brief second she compared the two events, how different they were, how different she was. Then, she had been brave and kind, she had thought she had saved Obi. Now, peering at the Jedi, she only felt what the Sith wanted her to: revulsion.

"Yes," she whispered back, a snarl on her lips. "He _must_ die."

Maul laughed, long and cruel—it was too sweet. Triggering his blade, he noticed he was less giddy over decapitating Obi-wan than having Satine at his side forever. No rescue would save her now. They were inseparably linked.

But that didn't mean he wouldn't mount Kenobi's severed head on his wall, reliving this moment over and over again.

The Sith left her side and placed the glowing, burning saber at his adversary's throat, who became partially aware of what was about to happen and tried to wriggle away.

But Maul placed his foot evilly on the Jedi's stomach, holding him still. Obi-wan weakly grasped the Sith's boot with his one hand, trying to remove it, all to no avail. He coughed up blood. It felt a bit odd to the Dathomirian. All those years. He had one dream, one vengeance. What would he do now?

He almost laughed.

He would do what he always did: Create, destroy, repeat.

It was far past time to demolish this era of his life.

Satine shuffled backward and stood with the rest of the guard, who now paid her no mind. The soldier next to her had a terribly cracked helmet. He did not see her hand as it slipped into his belt and whisked out. Completely devoid of all feeling, she clutched the small, metal ball tightly.

"You have failed," the Sith spat down at Obi-wan.

Then, he raised the burgundy blade. His arm came crashing down.

All eyes were on the execution, but Satine was not looking at the Jedi. Her gaze remained fixed on the Sith's back. Before the saber was halfway to Obi's neck, she whisked the blaster out from her skirt and pulled the trigger.


	25. Anger

The shot of the blaster rang out. In slow motion, she saw as it glittered through the dry, windy air and pierced Maul in the shoulder.

He fell. The glaring, crimson lightsaber flew out of his hand, clattered.

As heads began to turn to her, as the guards at her side began to reach out to try and detain her, she tossed the metal ball down with all of her might. A hand snaked around her arm, but disappeared as the explosion of mist shot out of the ground.

A massive cloud of blinding, gagging smoke concealed everything. It intruded into her lungs, through her nose, but she moved forward, ignoring the coughs and cries of the men around her, ignoring the pain that was her constant companion. Low to the ground, she scanned the pavement, parting through the choking vapor.

The world seemed to spin slower. She saw everything so clearly—every particle of dust, every waft of white mist against her skin, every step against the gravel. Something sparkled in her peripheral. She noted, stomach clenching, that it was Obi's arm, still clutching his lightsaber.

Taking a deep breath, she left it there—another problem for another time.

Crouching low, she continued.

Within moments, she came upon a white-clothed leg. Obi-wan was still lying flat on his back. As she surged to his side, his prodigal gaze was able to see her, aware of her presence. With a knowing but frightened look, his features were full of remorse.

She gave him a tight smile.

"It's not your fault," she whispered, barely audible above the chaotic screams.

Floating, disembodied legs were sprinting all around her—the smoke was beginning to clear.

Brow furrowed, she snatched the Jedi's loose, mangled shirt and pulled.

Her injured arms were no use, there was no strength left. She hadn't thought this far.

"Obi, you have to help me!" she exclaimed in a hush.

Although it seemed he would pass out if he tried, and indeed he felt that way, he nonetheless clenched his grizzled jaw and with a muffled moan sat up. His shoulder was all that remained of his right arm, the charred stump rotated forward as if the limb was still attached.

"That's it! That's it! Quickly now!" she encouraged, cradling him.

With one last, useless heave, he managed to stumble to his feet, but he swayed like a tree in a hurricane. The atmosphere was certainly not helping.

No time to waste, she began towing him behind her with whatever leverage she had left. His vision was a kaleidoscope. It felt as if his skin was trying to crawl away, ripping away. The heat beat down on him like a mallet, the smoke was concrete in his chest, but still he moved, unable to fully regain his equilibrium. The only thing keeping his feet on the ground was the tiny, infinitesimal tug on the front of his ripped shirt—her petite grip.

But he could not hold it, and they both knew it. As if their legs were moving through syrup, through quick sand, there was no end to the thick vapor that enveloped them. The loss of his dominant arm left him far more clumsy and lopsided. The smoke was blinding. With each step, she did not know if they grew closer to breaking free from it, or if they were simply running in circles. She had never done something like this before, and it showed. Every so often, patches of Death Watch uniforms were seen, she tried to dodge them as best she could, tried to swerve away.

"What happened?!"

"Man down!"

"Where's the Duchess?!"

"Call Savage!"

"Find them!"

The hounds were at their heels, she quickened the pace. Hyperventilating, she couldn't find clean air, couldn't escape the suffocating mist. It was if she was swimming through a storm cloud.

It proved too much. The knee of a running soldier smacked right into the staggering Jedi. Out of body, she could only feel as Obi-wan began to fall backward, taking her with him. Her neck whipped harshly, her head began to spin. The arm that had been holding him came out of its socket. She was forced to let go. The linen of his shirt slipped through her fingers.

Obi-wan collided to the ground, sending more dust into the air, rippling the vapor. The sound rang out, a death knell. The yells quieted and the fog dissipated. It seemed to sink into the ground, evaporate mystically into the atmosphere, leaving only a shimmering smear. It was no coincidence. The familiar sight of the Death Watch faces reappeared. All of them were in random places, but they began to converge and organize as the smoke dispersed.

Her stomach began to clench as she collapsed, but then she stopped, mid-fall. She should have been with Obi on the pavement by now, but she wasn't. An unseen hand was holding her up, clenching her in its invisible fist.

"No…" she croaked, not having to see to know.

Puppet on a string, she was whisked around, feet off the ground. Her spine felt as if it would snap.

There was Maul, blood trickling frugally down his front, out of his mouth. A flicker of light glittered through the hole in his upper chest from where she shot him. He held his lightsaber, but he didn't need it.

Face twisted, his bloodshot gaze was itching toward utter insanity. It wasn't burning—it was ice cold and cracking. He looked at her as if they had never met, staring though her. His nostrils were flared, his hand twitched as he held his arm out in front of him. His bloody mouth was flinching, twitching uncontrollably upward and then reversing, scrunching—up and down, smile and frown, tragedy and comedy. His antlered head jerked, cocked, straightened, and then repeated.

He was a dying spider.

Although his lips convulsed spasmodically, he managed to hiss through clenched teeth:

"You."

His outstretched hand tightened all the more. His fingers trembled like trampled cockroach legs.

Instantly, her whiplashed throat squeezed, collapsing on itself.

Mouth drying, lungs failing, blood vessels popping, her vision was darkening into a deep, inky black. Her thoughts became thick and slow, until there was nothing in her head at all. Everything was drifting toward the infinite shadows.

On the ground, Obi-wan saw it happening before his glazed eyes. He saw hazily as she was hung to dry, as she was crunched like a can. But he was not himself, his soul hovered above him somewhere. There was nothing he could do.

A tantalizing darkness was calling to him, beckoning him. It crept up into his vision until it completely engulfed all senses. Unable to hold out against its monstrous pull, he accepted it and descended into shadows.

For a few seconds, there was only black, but then a scene began to stretch out before him. It was his favorite reverie, his heavenly space, and he wondered if he had finally joined the Force, had finally escaped the cage of his mortal body.

Trapped in his mind, he saw Satine next to him in the wheat fields of his dreams. They had been laughing, he was sure, but now was all was quiet on the plains. She made a move to get up. Confused, he wanted to ask her what she was doing, but no words would escape his dreamy lips—only incomprehensible sounds.

He had both his arms, his body felt whole, alive. The wear of war was nowhere to be seen on him. The many scars he had acquired over many years were nonexistent.

Even better, she was just as he imagined whenever he thought of her. That headstrong Duchess who had just come into power but was completely unaffected by its sway. Her face was younger, but her eyes were just the same, too old for her age.

Like a mother, she stood above him with a penetrating, perceptive look. The make-believe breeze ruffled her heavenly tendrils. He did not want to leave this place, did not want to face the reality out there. There was too much pain, he couldn't do it alone.

Why couldn't she come with him?

Ashamed, he looked away, holding onto the feathery soil.

"Obi," she exhaled in a loving sigh.

The chime of her voice enveloped him. He met her omniscient gaze sheepishly, and he felt like a boy, like a youngling who had done something wrong.

But instead of scolding him, she extended a slender, supple hand. He knew that if he took it, he would leave and never return to this moment of serenity. Her knowing eyes shimmered down at him like the brightest stars, like distant, brilliant moons.

Duty called.

Before he accepted it he managed to say:

"I love you."

Her smile became of beam of sunlight, and he grasped her ethereal fingers.

Immediately, he crashed back into himself. The terrible pain was the first thing he felt, but his brain remained pristinely clear.

Maul was focusing all of his attention on her. His maddened features were shuddering grotesquely, like a bug. The smoke was still parting, leaving only an eerie fog that wrapped around ankles. The soldiers were standing away, startled by the surreal change in their leader, unsure what to do.

Obi-wan's right shoulder was on fire, he felt the charred muscles, the absence of his arm. It was threatening to overpower all of his senses, but the vision had left him with a breath-taking power.

He had accepted his attachment. He had finally admitted his love.

Just in time to watch her die.

With a cry, he jumped up onto his mangled toes.

The Sith instantly cocked his head at him, lip curled distortedly. The Duchess fell heavily, lifeless, slumped.

Reaching his remaining hand outward, Obi searched the Force and found what he sought. Maul wasted no time. On a dime, he rushed toward the wobbly Jedi, muttering incomprehensibly. His blade was unsheathed and bloodthirsty.

"Mine!" the Dathomirian finally managed to snarl at his minions, boots pumping ferociously.

But Obi-wan's lonely lightsaber whisked out of his dispatched hand and flew faithfully to him. As the Sith crashed down upon him, Kenobi held him at bay with a resounding parry, bending backwards. The muscles on his one arm strained, but held against the blow.

Enraged, Maul took another devastating swipe at his legs, which the Knight also managed to deflect. It depleted him considerably, and crimson-colored spit flew from his lips in a wheezing grunt.

Sparks hissed and crackled off of the joined lightsabers. Maul poured on the pressure, growing closer, inch by inch, to Obi.

The two adversaries locked gazes—blue against red. Each held an equal hatred for the other, but only one would win out. Kenobi could feel his will breaking, his wrist quivering under the weight. The veins on his neck popped, his teeth ground together.

Then, he spotted Satine.

The remaining smoke floated over her still, silent body. The sight hit him like a train, like a bullet to the head. Maul followed his vision, eyes flicking back and forth like crazed clockwork, and coughed out a laugh.

With a savage yell, Obi-wan pushed his opponent back, unleashing his pent-up energy. It was not pure, but filled with an unending anger. His love for Satine became a hatred of Maul. Its power sent the Death Watch flying backward, against the palace walls. They fell flat on their faces, some of them cried, while others went quiet.

Satine's lank hair rustled like grass as she lay on the pavement.

"NO!" the Jedi cried, shoulders heaving, heart breaking.

 _Not like this._

The Sith had not expected such a reaction and was sent reeling, skidding. His eyes widened in peculiar curiosity.

The wind howled, began to swirl. A ship could be seen on the horizon, followed by a cluster of tie fighters, going in and out of clouds.

The chains that had held him together, the code that the Jedi had molded him in, broke. Although his emotions were in turmoil, his target couldn't be clearer. His devastated stare flickered toward the crouched Sith. His trembling lip stilled, his face deadened.

"You," he breathed in a lethal whisper, quivering with adrenaline. "Killed her."

Quick as a snake, he charged, and slashed the Sith in the chest. A murky gash sprouted immediately, it began leaking blackened tears.

Again, before the stumbling Maul could strike out in defense, Obi was behind him. He smiled as he cut into his enemy's back. He savored the scent, savored the grunt of pain that escaped his prey's throat. He went for the kill.

"Not. This. Time," Maul hissed in between breaths as the blue blade swept toward his neck.

He blocked it an inch from his eye and elbowed Obi-wan in the chest. The two faced off again. Both of them filled to the brim with animosity, with unadulterated loathing.

Like magnets, they collided, completely oblivious to everything around them. Twirling, dancing, it was a magnificent sight to behold. Even with one arm, Kenobi portrayed to the world why he was a Jedi Knight, why he could never be counted out of a fight. Completely unbridled, he exploded in a flurry of attacks. He was not playing for a draw; he was in it to kill, to murder, as ruthlessly as he could.

Although freshly wounded, Maul still leapt acrobatically to and fro, feinting and slashing. Nevertheless, he could not dodge everything, Kenobi was too quick. Before he could find his balance, the one-armed Jedi would be there to try and cut off his legs, to take his head. By sheer will alone, he staved off death.

Some of the Death Watch soldiers were coming to, a gunshot rang out.

It didn't hit the Jedi, but soared close over his head.

Robotically, without emotion, he tossed his blade high in the air, pushed Maul backward with a burst of power and then turned to find the guard. Seeing the shooter, he lifted the sentry into the air and snapped his neck.

Behind him he heard the incoming footsteps of the Sith.

Just in time, the handle of the lightsaber fell back into his one hand and, in the same motion, he spun around. His burning sapphire saber hit its mark. Another deep gash cut into Maul, who staggered backward with a frustrated cry.

Immediately, Obi-wan marched forward.

Before his opponent could block it, another slash tore through him—this time across the stomach. Then, Kenobi sliced twice more, his weapon a blur as it seared into Maul. One last time, the Dathomirian lashed out, but it was sloppy.

Obi easily cut the Sith's hand off. The infamous dual-blade went with it.

Before Maul could think to snatch the stolen darksaber on his belt, Kenobi lopped the rest of the arm off. Then, he sliced the other, eye for an eye. Just a torso with legs, the Sith fell over, crying in pain. But the Jedi would not be sated unless he had the head.

Scrambling pathetically backward, Maul's mad features became wide and pleading, agonized.

"I surrender, Kenobi," he rasped, spitting up blood, still twitching madly. "I surrender. Please. I surrender!"

But the Jedi could only see Satine's body, lying there in the dust and mist. With pure revulsion he kicked Maul in the jaw. A burst of crimson exploded into the air. The sickening crunch of skull meeting pavement crackled.

It was not enough. He raised his saber.

Then, a terrible gust of power burst through him—he flew backward and landed hard on his head. The lightsaber was knocked out of his white-knuckled grasp. He heard it clank against the rock.

A massive figure stood on the horizon, his hand raised up.

"No…" Kenobi groaned, concussed, seeing triple.

He attempted to stand again, but only managed to prop up on his elbow.

Savage had returned.

Shadowed by the setting sun, his looming figure appeared even larger—a mountain. His black, x-shaped ship sat beside him, the engines humming. The air around it rippled. With intense hostility he stared at the downed Jedi, saber in his fist.

A dry breeze whooshed between them.

Obi-wan pushed off the ground, but had to lean back onto his good arm, unable to fight against gravity. He began searching for his weapon.

Opress took a decisive step forward, but then his gaze flickered upward, and he stopped. Kenobi could feel the shift of purpose in the fledgling Sith.

With a wolfish growl, Savage sneered menacingly and shook his head, blowing loudly out his bullish nose. Eyes never leaving Kenobi, he crouched down and picked up his deformed brother, whose legs swung limply.

As if Maul was a toddler, Savage seemed to carry him without the slightest burden. With one last, hateful glare, no words, he turned his back on the Jedi and leapt into his tie fighter. The hatch began to close.

"No," Kenobi spat, and made a concerted effort to stand.

But the ship was already pushing off the ground.

"No!" he roared again and again.

Too late, when he finally managed to get to his worn feet, the Sith were already ascending. Not one to give in, he started sprinting, stumbling drunkenly. He chased the shadow to the very edge of the terrace. He held his hand out, but the ship was disappearing into twilight. With a sparkle, it was gone.

"No…No...No…" he said in between hard breaths.

For a moment he stared into the darkening clouds, wishing more than anything he was someone else, something else.

 _I've failed her._

The very thought sapped his dwindling will.

Obi-wan collapsed to his knees and screamed with all his might, shaking the ground, emptying his guts. His shattered cry rang out, a mournful, heart-wrenching howl.

He lurched forward, bowed, crumpled. He roared at the earth. Drool poured from his mouth, he felt it tickle into his tarnished beard and drip onto the gravel as his entire being quaked, convulsed.

When he had no more air or heart left to give, he raised his head slowly, staring emptily at the sky. The last ray of light glittered against his blue eyes and then disappeared, taking his morality with it. Panting, chest heaving, heart pounding, he inhaled sharply and stood.

A Death Watch soldier laid, hardly breathing, behind him. He sensed his fear. Without blinking, Obi-wan turned around and began walking toward the survivor.

He reached out and dragged the unfortunate man to him with the Force while still in stride. The sound of dragging, useless boots kicking out against concrete echoed.

"Wait! Please!" the guard begged, coughing.

His cracked face-guard revealed a green, fearful eye.

The Jedi felt the man's life-force, knowing he could snuff it out. The temptation was strong. The strangled pleas reminded him of Satine. His fingers curled. The cries grew less lucid, became garbled chokes as the flailing body skidded across the pavement.

The soldier would be dead before he even reached Kenobi's feet.

Then, another presence, another Force-wielder entered the scene. It snapped his hold on the Death Watch crony, who abruptly halted and sagged to the ground, unconscious. His helmet clanged, his limp limbs thumped.

Before the Jedi could react, he felt it—a hand on his forearm.

Brokenly, Obi-wan peered at the owner.

"Let go of me, Anakin," he said, staring hollowly through the boy.

He would not.

"That's enough," Skywalker said cautiously, as if speaking to an unstable criminal. "It's over."

Obi-wan shook his head.

"He must be killed. He's too dangerous to be left alive."

The young Jedi's face only hardened.

"Perhaps," he concurred vaguely. "But that's not for you to decide."

But reason was not welcome in Kenobi's mind any longer—there was only anger and self-hatred. He could not keep his fury bottled up.

Blinded by his bloodthirst, he tried to kick Anakin's footing out from under him. But his legs were too slow, and Skywalker easily dodged the attack. This did not mean that the Jedi Knight did not try all the more to get to the downed soldier. He began struggling to break free, to take out his unseeing vengeance on someone, anyone.

"I won't let you stop me!" Obi-wan cried as he began to store up power. "He has to _die_!"

Skywalker was going to let go, one way or another.

"Don't you know who you sound like?!" Anakin exclaimed, grunting as he increased his grip.

For a moment, the Knight stilled. He turned his head and spat out a glob of blood, a glare entrenched on his features.

"I don't need a lecture from you, boy."

"Then stop this madness!" Anakin snapped back, face full of concern.

This set the one-armed man off again. With all rage, he cried:

"Satine is dead! She's gone! Maul killed her!" his gaze switched back to the unconscious soldier, full of murderous longing. "And _he_ helped!"

Before Skywalker could answer, the Knight struck suddenly. He kneed his friend in the stomach and turned swiftly to finish the man off. Before he could summon his lightsaber back to his grip, Anakin grabbed him from behind in a gentle, but firm bear hug. Obi kicked out, flailed with all his strength, his grieved stare never leaving his target.

"Obi-wan, stop it!" Anakin barked, pulling him away. "It's not what you think…"

"It's _exactly_ what I think!" he cut off, seeing nothing but a haze of red. "I saw it happen!"

But the boy's hold was like a vice; he couldn't shake him, not with only one arm.

"If you don't let me go…" he began to threaten.

"She's alive!"


	26. Wolf and Rabbit

**A/N: This is a bit of an aside, but I think it will add to the story! Enjoy and thank you for the reviews! :)**

 _Earlier that day._

 _Anakin_. Obi-wan thought, alone in the vent.

He leaned his head against the metal plating and peered lazily out the grill, into the tantalizing skyline.

No sign of a Republic ship, which was a good sign. His former Padawan knew better than to reveal himself so ostentatiously, where a Death Watch lookout could easily spot him. But what about the countless spies that Maul certainly had? Would Anakin be able to avoid all detection?

It was imperative that he must, or this entire scheme was dead before it started.

Obi-wan took a long, deep breath. He had to have more faith.

Below his gaze were the garden grounds, a cluster of buzzing guards humming to and fro, swarming. They were hypnotizing to study—each squadron marched quickly in semi-circles and then converged with another group, switched positions and repeated the process. It reminded the grizzled Jedi of a spider weaving a web.

A sharp tremor in the Force broke him out of his trance. Skywalker had landed.

 _Took him long enough,_ Kenobi mused gruffly, squinting toward the afternoon sun.

Sitting, legs under him, he paused, trying to guess what his friend might do. Knowing Anakin, he would want to charge in recklessly and save the day, even when Obi-wan had ordered him not to.

In his message, he explicitly indicated that whoever was sent to help him could not land anywhere near the palace, which was heavily fortified. They would have to leave the ship somewhere isolated and then sneak in through the gardens, which was the rendezvous point.

He started to panic that the communication hadn't been clear enough. There might have been static, some kind of disturbance, or a whole other host of problems. The signals hadn't been jammed at first, but Maul might have been quicker to the cut than previously assumed. What if it was intercepted?

Again, he had to stop his incessant worry. He closed his eyes, took a bundle of slow inhales and exhales. If anyone could do it, Anakin could.

Even for a veteran, it was a difficult task. He himself had been unsuccessful in his own attempt to break into the palace. Then again, the circumstances were different—there wasn't a Sith Lord and an army waiting for Anakin.

 _Yet._

Obi-wan smirked morbidly and absently rubbed his shoulder. Although he saw nothing, he undoubtedly felt a Jedi's presence in the city below. He glared, trying to see past the spindly trees into Skywalker's mind.

If he knew his former pupil like he thought he did, there would be a large distraction incoming.

He didn't have to wait long.

A large, echoing boom exploded somewhere close. Obi-wan rolled onto the balls of his feet, ready. A pillar of swirling gray began to ascend into the sky, mingling with the clouds.

"Careful, Anakin…" Obi-wan murmured, frowning. "Another firework like that will draw too much attention."

Apparently the young Jedi wasn't concerned with property destruction, for another massive blast followed minutes after the first. Twin smoke towers billowed on the horizon.

"Dammit," Kenobi swore to himself and then analyzed the Death Watch horde below.

The routine buzz of the soldiers quieted. All of their heads were turned in direction of the obvious destruction. Then, orders began to squeak in from their communicators. Obi watched them hungrily.

"C'mon…c'mon…"

Within seconds, they were on the move again. Only a handful of guards were left, stationed in a star around the gardens, while the others disappeared back into the fortress.

Obi-wan exhaled profoundly, shoulders sagging in relief. He rolled his eyes.

 _I hate it when he does that._

Now the Knight only had to wait. The hardest task was still ahead.

Concentrating, Obi tried to sense his friend's movements. Would he climb up the walls? There didn't seem to be another option than dangerously scaling up the massive citadel. They had left the ship behind.

He sat back onto his legs and closed his eager eyes, delving deep into the Force.

Yes, Skywalker would climb, but Obi-wan sensed he was frustrated about it. It seemed to be slow for Anakin, who wanted to sprout wings and fly. Kenobi smiled. Ever since he was young, the boy always had his head and heart in the clouds.

"Patience...patience…" he silently instructed. "Think."

Suddenly, Anakin made up his mind, as if egged on. His impatience became a subtle worry, as if he was concerned about something else, someone else.

Obi-wan knew that feeling very well. It was the pervading apprehension a Master felt for his apprentice whenever said Padawan was too rash or headstrong. A throng of memories began flooding into his mind. His former pupil had never been one to follow rules or respect any kind of authority. Anakin's was no different.

"You brought Ahsoka?!" he whispered ferociously under his breath, as if Skywalker was in his presence.

As soon as he searched for her, he found her. Undoubtedly, she was leaping ahead of Anakin, desperate to prove her worth. It could not be denied she had the edge on both of them in terms of agility—she was hilariously fast and flexible, but overconfident.

It always made Obi smirk whenever he thought of the two of them as a team—the wolf and the rabbit, fighting together; however, at the moment, all he could conjure was a deep-seated glare.

 _Reckless…irresponsible boy! He's going to be the death of me and his Padawan!_

He snapped his eyelids up, they were almost to the top. No use crying about it now. Carefully, he opened the grill of the vent, letting an addicting breeze in. The sentries took no notice of him. He tore off the grate and placed it behind him in the duct. Shuffling to the edge, he looked down as he grabbed onto the concrete walls. A gust of air tore through his hair. The drop was far, but manageable, he decided.

On his toes, he sprung lightly from where he was and landed just as softly, thirty feet below. A leaf rustled somewhere, but nothing else indicated that he had descended. The brick trail that winded throughout the gardens was cracking, neglected. Patches of grass were breaking through, but it felt nice on his bare feet.

He recalled the pattern the guards were stationed in. The first of the five soldiers was to his right.

Low to the ground, he kept out of line of sight, dancing out of light, ducking behind trees as he crept closer to his target. Unaware, the Death Watch guard stood with his back turned, blaster in his arms.

Obi-wan took another, soothing round of breaths. Anakin and Ahsoka were very close, perhaps already in the gardens. He had to make sure they didn't alert anyone to their presence.

He snatched a rock off the ground, his eyes never leaving the back of the sentry, and tossed it. Expectedly, it clattered loudly. The armored man immediately whisked around and tentatively went to check out the noise. That would keep him occupied for perhaps a minute.

When the guard disappeared into the shade of the man-made forest, Obi-wan rushed behind him and went to the edge of the terrace, looking over. The drop from the vent was nothing compared to this. His stomach swirled from just observing the vast distance from here to the city below. He shook his head and focused his queasy attention on the wall itself.

There was nothing, but he spotted scuffs from lightsaber burns. They had just been here, climbing.

A tap poked him in the shoulder.

He spun around and almost jabbed Anakin in the throat.

There they were, just as he predicted, looking like they always had. He lowered his hand and exhaled. It was a surreal thing to see friends after so long in enemy territory.

Although the boy's eyes watered, there was no time for sentimentality. Kenobi jerked his chin and took off for the vent, the two other Jedi behind him. In seconds, they were standing below it. He looked to each side, checking for guards.

Then, he demonstrated. Obi-wan leapt powerfully from the ground to an adjacent tree trunk and from there leapfrogged into the small opening without so much as rattling the branches.

Ahsoka's mouth formed a small 'o' while Skywalker nodded, determined. He went next. His form wasn't as graceful, but he managed to squeeze through. The small vent was beginning to feel extremely claustrophobic.

Finally, it was the youngling's turn and, as always, she was the best of the three in this department. Obi-wan barely heard her, only realizing she had made it in when she was turning to put the grate back in its place, already inside.

Still no words could be said, no plans made, while they remained here. Kenobi took them east, to the room he had stayed in the night before, unsure if it had been compromised. Luckily, it hadn't, and the three scrambled past Death Watch defenses and into the dusty, forgotten chamber.

As soon as the panels shut behind them, he turned around briskly. The youngling stood cautiously behind her Master, arms crossed.

"Do you want to tell me why you brought Ahsoka?" he snapped quietly to Anakin.

Immediately, the boy stiffened, became defensive.

"It's not my fault!" he whispered just as fiercely. "She…"

Pushing her way to the front, chin lifted, she cut him off.

"I snuck aboard."

Hand over his face, Kenobi let out a muted groan.

"You are too much like your Master for your own good, young one."

She took it as a compliment and smiled confidently. Hands on her hips, she waggled her eyebrows at Anakin, who only grumbled in response.

 _Wolf and rabbit…_ Obi thought again.

After taking another moment to appreciate the obliviousness of youth, Kenobi motioned for them to sit. Although the other two plopped effortlessly, the Knight was not so fluid. He sat heavily, burdened by his task.

The odd couple did not miss it and peered at him worriedly. Then, they began to really look at him. Although his clothes, obviously not his, were hanging off him, they could still see how withered he was. The muscle and skill might be there, but there was far less skin to cover it. He appeared stretched, gray. It was if he aged ten years since their last meeting.

Anakin pointedly noticed how the man's clavicle bone poked out sharply at the base of his neck, how thin his wrists and ankles were. His eyes were almost dead, with only a little of his usual spark still there. His beard seemed to have been cut recently, but it was still a mess of tangles and uncharacteristically uneven.

"What happened to you, Master?" Ahsoka squeaked, eyes wide.

He still hated that Anakin had brought her into this but, looking upon her, he could not stay mad. He had a soft spot for the Togruta girl.

He brought a hand to his whiskered chin, unsure what to divulge to one so young.

"Much," he hinted vaguely. "But it pales in comparison to what the Sith has done to the Duchess, I fear."

"So it is the Sith!" Anakin hissed, fists clenching.

Obi-wan glanced calmly at his belligerent friend.

"Yes," he affirmed, and the two of them stiffened. "Judging by your reaction, I suppose the Council is still unaware?"

Each of them nodded.

"We were suspicious but, after you left, all communications going in and out of this quadrant stopped," Skywalker explained, growing more livid by the minute. "When we tried to establish contact, they accused us of interfering in a neutral system, and had us banned from setting foot on Mandalorian soil. The Sith must have powerful friends in the Senate. I've never seen it act so quickly. Before we knew it, we were all being shipped off to the opposite ends of the galaxy for little things, like they were trying to keep us occupied. The Council kept tabs, but the Trade Federation kept having weird crises."

Obi-wan nodded wisely.

"That's why he let me go," he mumbled, stroking his beard. "He was running out of time."

"Wait," Ahsoka interrupted, alarmed. "'Let' you go? Who let you go?"

Again, the Knight wondered what to reveal. With a sigh, he supposed he should tell them.

"Darth Maul," he answered.

The youngling appeared unimpressed. It was understandable. He was just another name to her, but Anakin's face paled. Although he had been little, the vivid image of the Dathomirian, cloaked in black like death incarnate came to the front of his thoughts, followed by his black-streaked face and fiery red skin. They had faced him recently, but Skywalker never thought the Sith could infiltrate and take over an entire planet so quickly.

It was incredibly disturbing.

"The Council must be informed."

Again, Kenobi nodded.

"In due time," he agreed. "But, for now, we must focus on rescuing the Duchess. Maul has been keeping her hostage for the past month."

"So, she's in the prison?" Ahsoka chirped, unfazed. "What are we waiting for? We can take those guys!"

Her confidence made Obi smile, and it was a pity to have to smother it.

"Unfortunately, Padawan, she's not there," he replied gently.

She became perplexed again.

"Then where is she? What did the Sith do to her?"

This was the tipping point, the heart of the matter. Kenobi took a long moment, another deep, ragged breath. Anakin's eyes narrowed, he was beginning to put it together.

"She was the bait," Obi-wan clarified and had to look away from their curious faces. "Maul knew I would come for her, and he was waiting for me. I never had a chance."

The truth was festering in his gut, he had to expunge it. He peered meekly back up at them and gave a crooked grimace.

"I was dying," he continued, throat thick, becoming lost in the foggy memory. "Satine saved me. She…she traded her life for mine, gave herself to Maul so that I would live."

He remembered her anxious face, haloed in black, as she attended him, as he bled out on the throne room floor. His fingers itched toward his leg, where the bone had broken through the skin. Then, before he slipped into unconsciousness, he heard her say those horrible words.

 _"Take me, sell me, do what you will. I will not resist. My life is yours. But save him!"_

Anakin coughed politely, yanking Obi out of his morbid thoughts.

He grimaced apologetically and continued.

"After I came to, they locked me away," he decided not to disclose the dirty details just yet. "But the Sith keeps the Duchess at his side at all times. She's been with him this entire time."

The youngling shuddered. To be so close to a Sith for so long…it was unthinkable.

"Yes, she has suffered a fate worse than death," Obi contemplated, picking up on Ahsoka's sentiments. "This is why we cannot go to the Council first. She won't survive that long."

Although the girl nodded enthusiastically, her Master was restrained. His mouth pulled down in a frown, he crossed his arms tightly.

Kenobi waited for the inevitable. He cocked a brow.

"I agree that we must rescue the Duchess," Anakin began tentatively.

"But…?"

Skywalker exhaled heavily, not enjoying his role as the even-headed one. That mantle had never been his.

"But it's us versus an army and two Sith out there," he burst, not looking Obi in the eye. "Plus, it was too easy getting here. There were no ships, no soldiers, nothing. Even after we set off explosives, there wasn't much of a response. It's a trap, and Maul is baiting you again with the Duchess. He knows you're..."

His voice trailed off but the implication had been made. The young Jedi was becoming skeptical of his former Master's intentions.

Although the last part of it stung, Obi-wan couldn't deny that his attachment to Satine left him vulnerable. Nevertheless, he could not leave her. That aspect of the mission was non-negotiable. He understood why Anakin said what he did, but that did not mean he would follow his friend's advice.

"Perhaps," he agreed stubbornly, tight-lipped. "Do you have another plan in mind?"

Uncomfortable, Anakin shifted his legs.

"We should leave."

Inhaling sharply, Obi-wan tried to keep himself calm.

"Absolutely not."

"But the Council needs to know about the Sith! What happens if we fail? We can't let this knowledge die with us!" Skywalker snapped back, mirroring his friend's obstinacy.

"Then we'd better not fail," Kenobi retorted, jaw clenched.

Exasperated, the young Jedi shook his head.

"Then what are we supposed to do, huh? Go out in a blaze of glory? How does that help the Duchess?"

"The longer she stays with the _Sith_ ," Obi hissed, hands on his legs, leaning forward. "The more he digs his claws into her."

The thought sent him standing, pacing. The worry came back into his friend's eyes as they watched him, hesitant to say anything. It was clear that something was off about the Knight, but none of them had the heart to call him on it.

"I've _felt_ it, Anakin," he said, trying to keep his voice low. "For a blasted month, I've felt her slipping away. Her fear…it's terrible."

Thinking upon it, recalling her huddled form in his mind, made him hang his tired head, ashamed.

"How can I leave her when she sacrificed herself for me? It's an unrepayable debt."

Seeing him broken, beaten, was almost too much for Anakin. He sighed, shaking his head.

"Fine," he conceded, bitter. "What could possibly go wrong?"

Ahsoka beamed a brilliant smile and wacked her Master in the shoulder playfully. She had been waiting to crack some Death Watch heads—another day at the office. Obi-wan harrumphed a chuckle and crinkled his eyes at Skywalker—unsure how to express his gratitude.

"Alright, don't start crying on me now, old man," Anakin joked, cracking his usual smirk, but his features were strained. "What's the game plan?"

The Knight sat back down and bared his teeth in an eager smile.

"You said you had explosives?"

* * *

 _Present._

"She's alive!" Anakin exclaimed, his legs digging into the earth, using all his strength to keep Obi-wan from escaping.

The knocked out guard lay just a yard away, oblivious to the danger.

Kenobi halted, mid-flail.

"What? What did you say?"

Skywalker breathed a heavy sigh of relief, loosened his hold, but his hands locked around his friend's chest tightly—still uneasy about the state of his mind.

"Satine's alive."

A moment of disbelief, of silence—it was too good to be true. The Knight shook his head vigorously, his wild hair swishing.

"You're lying," Obi-wan accused weakly, his voice cracking. "She's dead."

A tear escaped from his eye. Why would Anakin fill his head with false hope? It was beyond cruel. Every moment he relieved his own weakness, how he had been unable to save her. The sound of her body hitting the ground would haunt him for the rest of his days.

"We don't have time for this!" Skywalker barked in his ear. "We need to leave now if we're going to save her!"

It was beyond seductive, this foolish faith. He had seen her drop from Maul's hold like a sack, devoid of life. What was his friend playing at? What did he have to gain from this malicious joke?

But what if...?

Only to confirm that she was dead, he did what the boy asked and reached out, delved into his instincts. Scouring, he felt the heartbeats, the living Force, of the people around him—the surviving Death Watch, Anakin, Ahsoka.

There was still nothing, and his anger was beginning to sprout back up.

 _All lies!_

Then, a single thump, a bubble in the river of the Force. Like a tormented candle, it was creeping toward the end of its wick. It drummed once, and then ceased. He thought it had gone out, but a few moments later it thudded again—dying, weak.

It couldn't be…

But it was. Every clench, every feeling in his gut pointed him to the conclusion: Alive.

His heavy-lidded eyes snapped forward. The hate was draining out of him. It dripped off his fingers and toes and oozed back into the earth.

Even barely breathing, she was still saving him.

"Let go," he finally said evenly, and then added: "Please."

Although wary, Anakin sensed his friend's focus was no longer on the Death Watch soldier. He loosened his grasp slightly.

It was enough.

Without hesitation, Obi-wan broke free and turned around to face his brother in arms. There were no words to say, he could not find a worthy apology. He frowned and the guilt of what he had planned to do, of what he had done, was already flooding through him. He pushed it aside.

He gave his distressed friend the most remorseful look he could conjure and, without looking back, he took off for where he last saw her. Skywalker was hot on his heels. He kept pace, watchful.

The fight had taken much from him, and he couldn't seem to move fast enough. The adrenaline was beginning to slink back, and pain was taking the spotlight in his body. His wounded shoulder pumped, pulsated. With each swing, he felt the charred, crusting skin break open. A light blood rain was falling behind him, leaving breadcrumbs. The little slashes all over his chest and legs were vying for attention, his steps slowed.

He wanted to lie down, wanted to fall into a dreamless, infinite sleep. But he knew that if he did so, there would no waking from it. Death was reaching its claws out to him, he couldn't stop now.

 _Satine,_ he reminded himself, pushing away the tantalizing fog.

He wrenched his eyes open, but had to slow to a light jog, had to appease the ache. He was so close.

Where there had been nothing but guards, there was now the landed, battered Republic fighter. Ahsoka stood in front, keeping an eye on the soldiers, who were lined up tiredly against the far wall, looking his way. Some were slumped over, asleep. Their blasters and other miscellaneous weapons were stacked next to the youngling.

In the distance, he could see willowy pillars of smoke—the remains of the other tie fighters.

Anakin had always been the best pilot.

"Masters!" the young Padawan greeted as they approached, fist over her heart.

Then, she saw the extent of Obi-wan's wounds. She gasped.

"You're hurt! Your arm…it's…"

He waved her off awkwardly, wearily, as he came right to the foot of the ramp. Anakin held back, still cautious, brow furrowed.

"Is she in there?" Obi asked, panting heavily. From the looks of it, he was on the verge of collapsing.

It was a lesson in dedication for Ahsoka. Here stood the much respected Obi-wan Kenobi, with one arm, covered in blood, and almost unrecognizable under the filth on his face, but all he cared about was the Duchess. It confirmed her suspicion that this was more than just a mission to him, but she did not want to press him just then.

"Er…yeah," she answered, her round eyes growing larger—she couldn't stop staring at the obvious. "I put her on the pull-out bed, in the cabin. She's unconscious, Master, and…uh…are you ok? You look like you lost a lot of blood."

As she spoke, he was already bounding up the ramp. Anakin jerked his chin at his Padawan, and the two of them ascended quickly into the hull, trailing Kenobi.

When they entered, the Knight was already at Satine's side, kneeled down next to the paltry bed. His focus was completely on the Duchess, and his one hand clasped hers. She was still unconscious, but he didn't seem to care. He shook, his entire body was quivering from the pain, but he would not succumb just yet. He had to make sure, had to see for his own eyes.

It was a tender moment, one that Ahsoka did not want to intrude on; however, she was anxious about the state of the pair. Would either of them make the journey back? She had done all she could for the Duchess, but what about him? He was just as worse for wear.

"Uh…Master Kenobi?" she peeped, coming up behind him. "Can I get you anything?"

He didn't reply, didn't even notice her, but kept squeezing Satine's hand as if it was the only thing in the world that mattered. Ahsoka had never seen such dedication.

"Leave him alone, Snips," came a stern order from behind. "He'll be fine."

Incensed, she scampered over to the retreating Sky-guy.

"What happened?!" the youngling asked in a whisper as Anakin passed her.

Her mentor only snorted, but he was terrible at nonchalance. It just wasn't in his wheel house.

"You know, business as usual," he said.

Unsatisfied, she accompanied Skywalker to the cockpit. She took one last worried glance behind her. There had to be something she could do!

After all, she had been the one to find Satine.

She and Sky-guy had put those Death Watch scoundrels in their place, stripped them of their weapons, ordered them to surrender. A lot of them actually did. It seemed they were tired of the Sith's rule, or maybe just tired in general. Some of them put up one last fight, which ended poorly for them. Ahsoka smirked.

 _Silly boys._

Then, she noticed a familiar, limp figure crumpled on the sand-colored ground. Her flesh had gone cold and clammy as she approached the lifeless Duchess.

Master Kenobi had said she had suffered a fate worse than death. When she heard it, at first she thought it was a tad dramatic. Worse than death?

But when she saw the Duchess, she regretted her initial pride. She had only seen the Sith, Maul, in passing, but even she knew that those marks on the woman's face were modeled after his. In the chaos, she never had the chance to notice those horrible tattoos, or whatever they were. It made her stomach back flip. Then there were the arms, those she knew about. They were all twisted and snapped, like trampled flower petals.

Mournfully, she believed that Satine was dead. She didn't even check for a pulse, it seemed so obvious. The sight had filled her with righteous anger, with an acute revulsion. No one deserved such an outcome. Ahsoka wouldn't wish it on her worst enemy.

She had crouched, wiped away the hair from the woman's face, tried to make her look more at peace, for she had died with a pained expression.

Then, she heard it—Master Kenobi's terrible cry.

At first she thought he was in physical pain, and she stood to join the battle. But all she saw was his bowed form across the terrace with no one around.

It pierced her to the core. The pain in it was tangible, awful. She wanted to leave, she thought she was about to vomit. These were the moments where she didn't want to be a Jedi-in-training any longer.

Obi-wan had always seemed so untouchable. He was the wisest, the kindest, and the bravest. Hearing him as he screamed to the heavens felt surreal, it made her question her decision. Would she have to go through that? Was it part of being a Jedi?

How could she look him in the eye knowing that she had failed him? It had been her job to keep Satine safe, and she couldn't even do that. She knew that she shouldn't have let the woman go! What had they been thinking? Sending her back to the front lines? In her condition? It was beyond stupid.

 _Pointless!_

Anakin was standing not far behind his friend, letting him have a moment. She couldn't read her Master's face, but by the way he was standing, it probably wasn't good.

Sniffling, she peered back at the Duchess.

"I'm sorry…" she sniveled, wishing that she could be forgiven.

Master Kenobi gave a last, heart-shattering howl. The strength of his agony reverberated in the Force like a tidal wave. It had been bad enough to hear it, but to _feel_ it, to know exactly what he felt, to know the depth of his sorrow—it was too much.

"I have to get out of here," she said to herself, weepy.

The defeated Death Watch soldiers were all looking at where the sound was coming from. Some of them covered their ears, while others took off their helmets and squinted, trying to get a better look.

She turned to leave, but something wrapped around her ankle. In disbelief, she looked down and saw a tarnished, mangled hand. It didn't look like it could hold onto anything, but the fingers were resolutely strong, pinching her bone.

The Duchess was looking at her intently. Her brilliant, blue eyes peeked out through the black smears and bloody patches.

"Duchess Satine?!" Ahsoka gasped, and immediately crouched to her side, then she called:

"Master! Anakin! She's alive! Hurry! Someone help!"

Seeing that her silent plea had not gone unnoticed, the Duchess sank back into comatose. The other Jedi rushed over and they carried her to the hull and had just gotten her to the cot and hooked to a crude IV, when Anakin took off again, sensing something.

He had run out of there like a bat out of hell, leaving Ahsoka to wonder what was going on...again. While he had been away, she sat with the Duchess for a moment, but then realized she should be looking out for trouble. The Death Watch soldiers were still out there, they might try to take them by surprise. She sprinted out and stood, guarding, waiting.

In the distance, it seemed like the two Masters were fighting over a blob of black on the ground. Then, all of a sudden, they were rushing toward her, albeit slowly.

The entire thing was very odd, and Padawans were always left out.

What had Sky-guy said?

 _Need to know basis._

Back on the ship, she tried to shake the sound of Obi-wan's cry out of her head, but it was on repeat.

"How is he still alive?!" she exclaimed to her Master, sitting heavily in the co-pilot seat.

"Could ask the Duchess the same thing," Anakin replied obscurely, pressing a multitude of buttons, strapping in.

The hatch closed, and the ship began to quiver, thrusters clanking, engines roaring.

Even Ahsoka couldn't answer that. The Duchess had been dead as a doornail.

"I guess…" she conceded, shaking her head. "But how?"

Her Master said nothing and continued with his preparations.

They began to ascend. It had been a long day. She peered back over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the couple.

"Don't bother them, Snips," Anakin warned, raising his brow at her. "They've been through enough."

"You can say that again," she replied absently, still astounded, but she turned back around in the chair.

From here, she could see the extent of the damage on the city. When she and Anakin had been skulking on the streets, it felt like a planet at total war. Buildings were crumbling, roads were littered with filth, and distant cries of babies and children were heard all around.

Above the smoke, the day appeared clear, sunny even, but on the ground there had been a thick, suffocating orange haze. It choked out all life, oppressive.

Seeing the war-ravaged skyline of Mandalore, Ahsoka realized something.

"Wait, we're just gonna leave? With _those_ guys still in charge?!"

She waved her hand toward the remaining Death Watch who sat below them, growing smaller and smaller. Anakin steered the ship toward the horizon, Mandalore firmly behind them.

"It's still a neutral system," he said heavily. "We can't interfere any more than we already have."

Her ears popped as they broke through the atmosphere. The night blanket of infinite space was setting out before them. It didn't seem right to her.

"What if the Sith go back?" she pondered, raising her hand questioningly. "Can we 'interfere' then?"

The image of the Duchess's mangled face flashed in her head. It was overpowering next to the sound of Master's Kenobi's wail. She wrapped her arms around herself protectively, shivering.

No one should have to go through that. Were they sentencing the people back there to death? To a similar fate?

"I don't think they'll be back," Anakin mused, smirking, eyes on the road.

He barked an order at R2-D2 who issued a flurry of beeps in response. The hyper-drive was ready.

"Why not?" Ahsoka pressed. "What's stopping them?"

Skywalker paused before pulling the light-speed lever. He turned toward her.

"Once we tell the Council, _and_ the Senate, there's another competing pair of Sith," he explained darkly. "It's sure to attract the unknown Lord."

Her eyes widened in understanding. Before Anakin snapped the handle down, he muttered:

"There can only be two."


	27. Mystery

The last thing Satine saw was Maul, knowing that no one would be there this time to save her. Obi lay on the ground, unconscious, and a diminishing part of her wanted to fight to survive for him, but it was a losing battle. Anakin had not come back, and she guessed that he was occupied with Savage.

Resigned, she began to accept her fate. The air was slowly leaking out of her like a deflated balloon. With each twitch of the Sith's hand, she was speeding toward death.

The weight that crushed her chest, her throat, her organs, was unbearable. Unable to speak, she nonetheless begged for death to come sooner.

Her brain was imploding, suffocating, and it finally gave out. The aches and worries of the world were slipping away like fog parting over mountaintops. The encroaching black that had been held at bay now roared in indignation, eager to quench its thirst.

Everything up until that point had been slow, but now an avalanche was forming. In seconds, her vision was gone and, then, so was she.

Maul disappeared. She sank away and did not dream.

There was only a void, an endless night. Somewhere in it she floated, unseeing, unfeeling, yet nonetheless _being_. It was an expanse of nothing, a limbo. She had never known what lay beyond life, although she prayed that someone would be waiting for her on the other side—friends, family, ancestors.

But there was only crushing waves of black.

Yet, she was still aware of her existence. Somehow, someway, she had retained her soul. Was she a part of the Cosmic Force that the Jedi had spoken so reverently of? Would she be stuck here forever, going over her life, her mistakes, and regrets?

Was anyone else here?

Stripped of her mortal body, she nonetheless felt inclined to speak.

"Hello?" she attempted to say, but no sound came out.

But she _saw_ the effect of it. Perhaps it was all in her mind, but she thought she could see a ripple in the darkness, a subtle wave. Had she created that with her voice?

She wanted to move but couldn't, there wasn't a way.

Invisible chains held every inch of her down like a cocoon. Though without a physical form, she could nonetheless notice their presence. The more she struggled, the tighter they became. Even here, she couldn't escape the coils of the snake. Yet, there was no fear or pain. It just was.

The more she contemplated, the less this odd place bothered her. Would it be so bad just to drift throughout eternity, not feeling or caring? She could finally rest.

 _Yes, I would like to sleep._

Coming to this conclusion, the world around her began to shift, reacting to her acceptance. The inkiness was lightening, fading away. There was no heavenly radiance or choir of angels, but something was certainly happening. With immense tranquility, she realized that she was stepping into a different plane, another dimension.

 _Perhaps I'll see Bo._ she pondered dreamily.

She was whirling toward a horizon. The night was separating from the day. Even as the light grew, her body did not appear, did not return. She was only a subtle consciousness, an out-of-body perception of herself. Had she been imprisoned or was she finally set free from her pain?

There was a gash on the plane up ahead, a slit. It poured out galaxies and universes, molecules and atoms, and so much more. It was the eye of existence, the Cosmic Force. Somehow she knew that this was where she would find the others like her, where she would rejoin the world soul.

The Jedi were right, but there was much they still did not understand. True, infinite knowledge resided here, and only those who were shifting into death were allowed to partake of it.

Then, as she drifted ever closer to the indescribable eye, she began to wonder if this was really what she wanted. What if she was alone? There was no promise that Bo-Katan was beyond this vacuum. How would she know?

 _Obi will be here soon enough…_

But how long would she wait? He was a Jedi, after all. Did he go somewhere different? What if she couldn't find him?

These burning questions made her realize she did not want to move on just yet.

The breathtaking process halted. She floated on the cusp of eternity. A billion lights and other wonders filtered beside and through her. It was an unimaginable beauty, but thinking of Obi-wan, she was more hesitant. Even this sight could not compare with the Jedi, the one thing she desired more than anything.

Even more than eternal rest itself.

 _I would have liked to have seen him one last time…away from the war._

Yet it did not seem that the choice was hers to make. She could not decide whether to live or die when it was so inextricably out of her hands.

Besides, the verdict had already been made. There wasn't a possibility was there?

It sounded logical, but something within her pleaded for her to wait—just a few more seconds, then she would go. But did time work here like it did out there?

She pondered blankly about this phenomenon, inching closer to the Cosmic Force, when a massive, oceanic tidal wave began forming just beyond the galactic eye. It glittered like diamonds but had the shape of rushing water.

Passively perplexed, she watched as it rose from nothing and then escalated to a tsunami. It was gaining momentum the more it grew. It was coming right for her. Before she could wonder what it meant, it collided with her and sent her reeling backward, yanked. Gushing, it enveloped her in its crystalline tides and she was hurled away from the entryway to the Cosmic Force. The night took over once more, the horizon erased like sand in the wind.

Even in this confusion, there was a faint sound intertwining within the translucent waves.

It was the unmistakable voice of a child, a boy—he was crying. Hearing it, the serene emptiness within her gave way to a profound sense of duty, a defensiveness that drowned out everything else. She had to save this boy and, thus, she could not move onto the afterlife just yet.

 _Another time…_

The celestial waterfall of light and splendor grew more distant, and she descended back into the thick black. The shimmering tide vanished under the cover of pure darkness, though it still had her in its crushing clutch. It was as if she was falling backwards through space and time, rapidly sinking, or being dragged, toward oblivion.

The more she was separated from the promise of some sort of hereafter, the more she began to _feel._ The heart-breaking sobs of the child escalated into a wail. She earnestly desired to help him. Where was he? It was maddening, hearing but not seeing, feeling but not knowing. It was beginning to overwhelm her. Her re-forming shell did not seem large enough to encompass the barrage of emotions filling her past the brim.

He wouldn't stop weeping. The terrible howl was worse than the suffocating darkness.

"Where are you?!" she cried, but nothing could be heard except the earsplitting shriek.

She was about to explode, she was about to shred into extinction, when her eyes snapped open.

An uncomfortable blast of oxygen pushed its way into her lungs, and she gasped. It was like she had gone from zero to infinity in a second—the beat of her heart was pounding savagely, she couldn't suck in enough air. The sensations of pain, sweat, blood, dirt, and gravity were an incessant firing squad.

At first, she could see nothing, but the thick curtain began to draw back the more she revived. Blotches of red and bright yellow took the stage. She blinked a couple times, and the brilliance of the glare diminished with each flutter of lashes.

Her sight became hazy, barely functioning, but she could see some sort of form standing above her. It was positively orange and had a dazzling crown of white tendrils interlaced with elegant blue stripes. Angel?

She had to make contact with it—perhaps it knew about the boy? Blood was rushing powerfully, plugging her ears. Had someone helped him? Was he alright? There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but her throat was lodged.

Despite the odd sensation of a terrible ache rocking through her very bones, she whisked her arm out and grasped something soft yet stern. Instantly, the being above looked down at her, and she met its gaze. Its eyes were massive, sparkling, and pale, there was a kindness there.

 _Help him!_ she wanted to scream.

Her tongue was bulging, thick, yet she tried to screw up her face, her eyes. Somehow she had to explain the situation.

The figure came closer. Did it know? Did it understand?

Its luminescent face took up all of her vision. It seemed to be speaking, but she couldn't hear the words. The sparkling eyes were filled with concern and panic. Surely this being would save the boy.

Satisfied, she fell back asleep, confident that whoever it was would help the child.

* * *

 _On the ship._

Everything had quieted. Obi-wan had finally agreed to take the extra bed, but he insisted on having it laid out beside the Duchess on the floor. Ahsoka was just happy he had enough sense to admit he needed rest. After half an hour of clinging to the Duchess, he had begun to sway alarmingly. Even as the Padawan eased him onto the mattress, he wanted to hold Satine's hand. His heavy-lidded eyes watched her as he succumbed into an uncomfortable slumber, a layer of perspiration covering his skin.

Anakin had stopped speaking after the first hour. He had yet to decide what he was going to tell the Council when he returned. Surely they would understand why he did what he did? After all, he had successfully rescued a Jedi Knight, the ex-Duchess of Mandalore, and had help oust the Sith to boot.

The strikes on his record were adding up, though. Nothing could be taken for granted these days.

With Kenobi on the ground, the cabin was certainly more cramped, but it made it easier for Ahsoka to keep him steady. Movement was his worst enemy right now, the wounds kept splitting back open.

She went back and forth between him and the Duchess, checking pulses, IVs, and bandages. They had stocked the medical kit pretty well before coming, what with Master Kenobi being M.I.A. for so long, and it proved to be a life-saver...literally.

Yet even with all they managed to pack, Ahsoka felt there was barely enough. What they needed was a fully staffed and equipped hospital, but what they got were a few IV pouches and linens.

The trip wasn't terribly long. If her Master floored it like he always did then they would be at the nearest Republic station before morning. She peeked at the time—only a couple more hours until dawn.

As Ahsoka presided over the two, she still couldn't understand why the Duchess was alive—and not just alive, but stable. Throughout the entire escaping, flying process, she hadn't gone into shock, hadn't stopped breathing, hadn't made a peep. Her heartbeat was routinely steady. She was a little cold but nothing serious, and must have had a bundle of broken ribs and other bones but her lungs sounded normal. She still looked dead—her messed-up face was perfectly, yet disturbingly, serene and totally pale.

"Can't judge a book…" the Padawan muttered under her breath as she timed Satine's pulse for the hundredth time.

It was normal, but Ahsoka still sighed in frustration. If she hadn't been there to witness it, she would have never believed it.

Shuffling over to Master Kenobi's side, she compared the two, and the mystery just became all the more unbearable.

The Duchess was sleeping sweetly, but Obi-wan was sweating alarmingly—he was beginning to get a fever. His new amputation was becoming infected, and he groaned every few minutes. Unlike Satine, he was deteriorating fast. She had placed a dampened washcloth on his head, but ended up replacing it every hour on the hour. It was soaked through and hot every time. The bandage covering his shoulder reeked of contagion whenever she re-wrapped it.

Nothing suggested that this man had been able to take on a Sith and win.

Yet he had done so.

There was something weird going on here, something that Ahsoka was determined to figure out. She had scoured them physically and found nothing. Perhaps the doctors back at the station would provide more clarity, but she doubted it. Had they taken some sort of drug when she hadn't been looking?

If that had been the case, they would have come down from the high by now. No steroid or enhancer lasted this long.

She shook her head, baffled.

Taking one last anxious glance at Master Kenobi, she decided she needed a small break. Maybe Sky-guy would know.

"Hang in there, Obi," she whispered, squeezing his fingers. "I'll be right back."

She stood and returned to the cockpit, determined to get an answer.

Anakin still appeared unwilling to talk. His usual grimace was becoming a full-blown glare. The cogs in his head were churning—she could practically see the smoke coming out of his ears.

 _Not a good sign._

Nevertheless, she wasn't too worried. She'd been with him in the thick of things, so she knew how bad he could get.

She took a moment to judge with one hand on her hip and the other on her chin—mimicking Master Kenobi. Anakin's back was hunched, and he was strangling the controls, but he wasn't muttering under his breath, which was a good sign. Ahsoka nodded resolutely, and plopped down next to him.

On a scale of 1 to 10, this was probably a 4.

Tiredly, she put her feet up and crossed her arms. How to approach this delicately…

"So…" she started conspicuously, looking at him from the side of her eye. "How's it going?"

Startled, he obviously hadn't heard what she said, but she didn't expect him to. He quickly glanced her way, and shrugged, trying to appear somewhat casual. She wasn't buying it. Smirking, she tried again.

"How close are we?"

She already had a rough idea of the answer, but she wanted to toss him a softball. One had to build up to these sorts of things with Master Skywalker.

He coughed, irritated.

"Not close enough."

As if interested, she nodded purposefully, and switched her gaze forward. Bursts of white shot past them, she tried to trace each one before it disappeared behind them. Light-speed was always a soothing feeling, like floating or running on clouds.

 _You could say it's like sky walking…_ she joked to herself and let out a slight giggle.

Bad idea.

Growling, Anakin cocked his head to the side and gave her a disappointed look. She knew the rebuke before it exited his hardened mouth.

"This is serious, Ahsoka," he scolded, and she could sense a rant about to take place.

She beat him to the punch.

"Ok, ok. Don't get your boxers in a bunch. I'll be completely focused from now on," she responded holding up her hands peacefully as he inhaled.

Slighted, he grumbled under his breath in response, and turned his attention back on the road.

 _Alright that's definitely a 6._ Ahsoka noted, and readjusted her plan.

She knew she would have to be more careful, but she didn't have time for that! Why was she the only one fascinated by this? Was there some sort of Jedi secret that he was keeping from her?

Brooding, she began to imitate her Master—slumped, arms tightly wound around her stomach, and her foot fidgeting relentlessly up on the dash. Another wave of silence passed between them, growing tenser by the second. He knew she had something on her mind that she wasn't expressing, but he didn't want to necessarily have a long, arduous discussion with his Padawan when he hadn't come up with a decent explanation to tell his own Masters.

They wanted to help Obi-wan as much as he had, but the Senate was completely against it. This adventure would cost them huge points with the Republic body.

Thinking about the look on Mace Windu's face…he was so dead. He winced noticeably. No one could yell like Windu could.

Without realizing it, he was staring at Ahsoka's vibrating foot. It was capturing all his attention and beginning to thoroughly annoy him. Her unsaid question was pressing down on him, squeezing him.

He didn't have an answer for that either, he was sure.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore and he snapped suddenly:

"Can you at least try and do _something_ useful?!"

His voice seemed to echo, and she sullenly lowered her boots to the ground, mumbling apologies. Immediately, he regretted it. He had to get his anger under control. He had to do better, be better. He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a loud exhale. The constant weight that resided on his shoulders increased.

The youngling looked like he had just kicked her. That would cost him later on, and he knew it. Hurt, she shot up out of her seat and went to the cabin to check up on Obi-wan and Satine. In her absence, he thought of ways he could make it up to her.

If she came back, that is.

After a few minutes, she did, and he could tell she was about to explode. Ahsoka always had the last word.

Without taking her usual place at his side, she stood, hands curled into fists at her sides, behind him.

 _Here we go…_ he thought.

"You know what—"

"Stop," he said as he looked over his shoulder ruefully at her. "Before you spout off, I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I let my impatience get the better of me. It won't happen again."

Mildly appeased, she huffed and sat back down.

"Well maybe if you _talked_ about what's upsetting you more often," she suggested pointedly, narrowing her eyes. "You wouldn't be such a grouch."

With a tight grin, he nodded.

"You're probably right."

Eager to press an advantage, her eyes sparkled mischievously.

"You could also be a bit more sensitive to other people's feelings," she continued and then, after another moment of thought, added: "And less stressed out. I mean, you can't bottle up your worries all the time. It's just not healthy, Master. One day—"

"I get it, Snips," he cut off, but his chin was quivering, trying not to smile.

Content, Ahsoka leaned her head against the chair, and began picking at her nails. There was an annoying amount of dirt caught under them.

He rolled his eyes, not fooled.

"C'mon," he said, pushing the image of Yoda grilling him to the back of his head. "Spit it out."

It was what she had been waiting for, and she grinned confidently. She knew Sky-guy would come around.

"It's just…" she started, trying to find the right words.

How could she explain it?

Uncharacteristically, he waited for her to formulate her sentences. Eventually she gave up, and sighed.

"How can they still be alive?"

Anakin did not have to ask to know. He had been wondering the same thing. Yet, just like his Padawan, he had come up with nothing.

"Haven't we been over this?" he asked back, growing tired.

Couldn't they just be happy?

She stiffened and crossed her arms.

"No, we never even discussed it!" she retorted, heated.

He let that one pass, knowing she was building to something. He sensed her growing irritation and waited for the inevitable.

It all came out.

"The Duchess was dead! I saw her, she was gone. And Master Kenobi shouldn't have been able to take on the Sith in his condition," she argued, speaking fast. "He _should_ be dead. But here they are, alive. I'm not saying that I'm not totally relieved. I'm beyond glad that they survived, but there's something going on here, Master, and for the life of me I can't figure it out."

By the end she was breathing heavily, and her hands were thrown in the air in frustration.

He knew the feeling.

The lights on the scanner began to flash—they were coming up on the station. Disappointed, this meant she probably wouldn't get an answer until she was alone with Anakin again.

He truly wanted to appease her curiosity, but he himself had yet to figure it out. He had planned on asking Obi-wan, but that wouldn't be possible for some time.

 _Or never…_ the thought came morbidly to his mind.

He shook it away. Obi had to live. There was no question. No ifs, ands, or buts. They had not gotten this far just to…

The sound of furious beeps and chirps yanked him out of his pessimistic denial.

"Alright, I'm on it…don't lose your head, R2," he grumbled as he took the ship out of light-speed.

Ahsoka sighed as she gazed on the slowly spinning, t-shaped space station that sat conspicuously among the stars.

"Home sweet home…" she muttered and started cleaning her nail beds again.

The communicator buzzed. A Republic sentry was asking for their identification number. Anakin answered robotically, but then added:

"We need medical assistance immediately upon landing."

Ahsoka supposed she should be there when the throng of droids and clones came aboard, and went to check on the Knight and the Duchess one last time. The medics would want to know what happened. Before she exited the cockpit, she heard:

"If it makes you feel any better," Anakin said, pressing buttons and pulling levers. "I'm just as stumped as you."

It didn't ease her inquiring mind, but it did mean that this was far from over.


	28. Stretcher

In the middle of a feverish dream, a nightmare filled with brimstone and hellfire, Obi-wan was harshly awakened by a swarm of bodies poking and prodding him. His eyes snapped open, and he could only watch in horrified confusion as a host of people surrounded him, blocking Satine.

"Wh-what are you-?" he croaked, unable to gather enough strength to fend off these intruders.

Something squeezed his mangled arm, an odd wheeze resounded close to his ear, quickly spoken murmurs buzzed above him. The hazy forms engulfed him. Some of them wore blue-streaked armor plates, and a flicker of recognition hissed in the back of his head. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel under attack as shadowy fingers and hands gripped his arm and legs, fussing about his wounds.

Still he could not see the Duchess, and a panic swelled within. What was happening to her? What were they doing?

The blurry silhouettes were not particularly gentle, and a flurry of pain prickled all over. In the chaos, he saw the unmistakable glimmer of a needle. His entire focus narrowed in on it, and he began to writhe, to flail, to fight.

More alien hands, seemingly out of nowhere, out of darkness, held him down.

"Satine! Satine!" he tried to yell, but all that would come out was a chorus of rasps.

His throat was bone dry. His lips were as cracked as the desert.

In estranged desperation he reached within the Force, intent on getting these things away from him by any means.

Then, a calm, cool hand rested tenderly on his burning forehead.

"Master Kenobi," a light, airy voice chimed, piercing through the incessant white noise. "Everything's going to be alright. They're here to help you and the Duchess. Please try and stay calm."

His heavy-lidded eyes swerved and rested on the familiar, tangerine features of Ahsoka. She smiled sweetly down at him, dimpling. Her usual blue-striped, white tendrils framed her decorated face. A great sense of unease still clenched his chest, but he trusted the Padawan. With one last hesitant glance in Satine's direction, he nodded reluctantly and lay back down, the fever getting the better of him.

Immediately he felt the sharp prick of a needle sting his forearm, but it was one ache among many, many others.

As he waited for the medicine to take effect, his body went still, but his face was twisted in a mask of worry and pain. In the insanity of the past month, he had only himself to rely on. Going from isolated survival to the crowds of a friendly space station, with those who actually wished to _help,_ seemed too good or perhaps too dangerous to be believed.

When he felt himself being lifted onto a stretcher, he couldn't help himself. Nostrils flared, his lids fluttered back open, and he jerked away from the ever-prying hands. Strained, he looked for the Padawan who had just been at his side, but now was nowhere to be seen.

His vision was clearing, but the unbearable heat radiating out of him like a dying star kept him semi-blinded. There was a putrid stench on the air, and he guessed he was the source of it. His right shoulder throbbed uncontrollably, as if monstrous worms were biting through, crawling around, inching toward his brain. Although his flesh felt as if it was searing right off his bones, his heart felt cold, like it was slowly being stripped of all life.

He clenched his jaw hard, desperately wishing that someone would put a slab of tough leather between his teeth so he could have something to bite on besides his cheek. He was moving fast now. The shadowed people became streaks of black as they ran alongside him.

Still, he searched for someone, anyone. He did not want to die alone, among strangers. A fish out of water, his mouth gaped open, trying to call out.

"A-a-a-h…" was all he could gasp.

Somehow, the message did not fall on deaf ears.

A gloved hand grasped his own—the material was soft against his burning, callused paw. He recognized the wolfish face of Anakin as the young Jedi leaned in, keeping pace easily with the medics. Yet instead of his usual menacing snarl, his puppy-dog eyes were round and shimmering. The intimidating scar that ran over the right eye seemed to disappear behind the big blue irises and long, extended lashes.

 _There's he is…_ Kenobi thought tiredly, the morphine beginning to do its work. _There's the boy from Tatooine…_

Obi-wan gave a relieved smile, which appeared more like a grimace.

"Just hang in there," the boy said, although his voice sounded as if he was speaking through water. "You hear me, old man? You are _not_ allowed to die."

Despite the influence of the drug, which was beginning to drag him under, the grizzled Jedi Knight gave a gurgled cough, which he intended to be a laugh.

Although an intense concern glimmered powerfully on his face, Anakin returned Obi-wan's pitiful chuckle with his usual crooked grin.

"Atta-boy."

Secure in the knowledge that his former pupil would stay with him, Kenobi let the oppressive weight that sat on him win. With a strangled sigh, he rested his head back against the cool metal.

The fire raging in his bones was being smothered by a heavy, intoxicating darkness. It started from his toes and fingers, dampening the wildfire like a steady rain. It appeared that a heavy sleep was hurtling toward him like a train. He couldn't avoid it.

It was about to reach his head when, with one last gust of energy, he squeezed Anakin's hand as hard as he could. Then, as the suffocating black shut the light off in his brain, his fingers went limp, and fell away from Skywalker's.

The young Jedi clung to him, running with the clones for another few minutes, unwilling to leave his friend's side. The harried group was approaching a steely set of door panels. Red warning signs framed each side.

 _Medical staff only._

Anakin hoped, foolishly, that they would let him come along, but as soon as the panels swished open, a nurse clone came up behind him and gripped his arm firmly. Reluctantly, Anakin let the battered, one-armed, unconscious Jedi slip away.

He watched hungrily as Obi-wan and company disappeared into the intensive surgery ward. With a despairing finality, the panels shut—the sound made Anakin wince.

"Sorry, sir," the clone holding him said in the usual drawl. "But you cannot go back there."

He did not turn around but only nodded stonily, not taking his eyes off the door. The nurse was smart enough to release the Jedi and scamper away.

The harsh, fluorescent lighting that seemed to be an unfortunate staple of hospitals only set Anakin more on edge. All around him were the muffled moans of other injured people—mostly clones that had been wounded badly enough on the battlefield to warrant such a luxury as a fully-equipped hospital.

He didn't even want to think about what that meant, but an image of a bucket filled with discarded limbs crashed into his head despite himself.

 _I need to do something. Need to get out of here._

He decided he better find Ahsoka. She had been the one to accompany the Duchess.

So, turning on his heel, he sprinted back the way he came, looking for the familiar Padawan. If he remembered correctly, the Duchess had been taken to the ER. Her problems did not appear as bad or as obvious as Obi-wan's.

The deadened eyes of friends awaiting a verdict watched him as he ran through the sterile corridors. Groups of clones, with their helmets off, huddled around one another. They waited for the news of life or death of one of their brothers in arms.

In each face, he could see the stages of grief. Some sat with arms crossed, glaring at the floor. Others hounded doctors as they walked by, eager for news, eager to bargain. Still others fought back tears, their identical chins and lips trembling, their pale eyes shimmering and mournful. Lastly, usually commanding officers or those who appeared particularly grizzled, there were those who had a peculiar tranquility on their faces. They had seen death many times, and so had already accepted the worst.

Anakin wished he could be like those men, but he knew that would never be. Death was not something he took lightly.

Before he could suppress it, an image of him holding his dead mother flashed through his mind—her glazed over eyes, the way her dusty, battered body hung limply as he tried to shake her awake. She was only sleeping, right? Then, he felt in the Force as her spirit, as her very essence, slipped away and dissipated. Now all he had left was her shell. His mother had evaporated into thin air, leaving him behind and alone.

Before the next scene could play out he stopped himself. No, he could not go there.

It took a concerted effort to stifle the memory, to imprison it again.

 _I hate hospitals…_ he thought bitterly.

"Master!"

Lost in his mind, he hadn't noticed he had passed Ahsoka until she called out to him. Skidding to a halt, he whisked back around to where she stood waving.

As he approached, her excitement from finding him quickly wilted to unease.

 _Oh boy…_ she thought, eyes widening. _Now_ that's _a 10._

But she couldn't shy away from her duty now. Even though her instincts and common sense screamed at her to run very far away from here, she knew she had to stay and endure Anakin's storm.

It was going to be a long day.

He barely paused to nod at her before he charged toward the ER wing. She followed him, trying to keep pace with his long, powerful strides.

What did he think he was going to do? Kill the doctors? She knew that there was nothing any of them could do to hasten the process, but that's exactly what her Master despised—lack of control. There was no way she could talk to him when he was like this, but she could try her best to lessen the blow he was about to dish out.

It didn't take long. As he turned a corner sharply, he ran right into a twitchy, flustered intern carrying a tray of liquid samples.

"Oh no," Ahsoka squeaked out loud.

It was like watching two star destroyers collide, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop it.

"Hey, watch where you—"the young clone began to complain until he looked up.

Although he was probably only a few years older than her, he already had his head shaved, marking him as a full-fledged clone. The symbol painted on the side of his head was in the shape of a teardrop, with an intricate latticework framing it in elegant swirls.

The meticulous detail on the tattoo stood out all the more as the clone's face paled considerably, becoming a sheet of pure white.

Ahsoka didn't want to know what was in those sample cups, but she guessed the worst.

Anakin stood, peering passively down at his stained shirt. His shoulders began to quiver.

 _Uh-oh._ she thought, her brain working quickly. Maybe she could dive in front of the intern before the first blow was thrown? Or perhaps devise some sort of distraction?

"S-sir!" the clone finally managed to sputter out. "I didn't…I-I…"

But the poor man's words failed him as Anakin increased his murderous glare. The Jedi's hands were in fists at his sides.

A red-alert alarm squealed in Ahsoka's mind.

 _Not good. Not good. Definitely not good!_

"A towel might be nice," Anakin hissed through his teeth, pronouncing every syllable.

The intern's eyes widened into moons, his mouth hung open. It was a laughable expression on any other occasion. A clone's features were usually sharp and grave, with cutting, brusque cheekbones and square jaws. Most had a permanent five o'clock shadow and curved, dark eyebrows set in a permanent scowl.

This clone had the opposite expression, and Ahsoka might have chuckled if she wasn't so focused on trying to keep her Master from killing the poor thing.

"Of c-c-course, sir!" the pallid man stammered and then scrambled to his feet and bolted down the hallway.

Tentatively, the Padawan sauntered to Anakin's side and peered at the puddle on the floor. Luckily, it appeared he had managed to dodge the bulk of it, but some still stained his shirt, right in the middle of his chest.

"Don't. Say. Anything," he said, his eyes narrowed into slits, waiting for his prey to come back.

"Wasn't gonna," she muttered under her breath.

When the intern came scampering back, double time, he had a dampened towel in his hand. As he approached, panting, he held it out for the Jedi. His pleading eyes became slightly more comforted when Anakin snatched the thing out of his hand and immediately applied it to his chest.

Even though the Jedi had managed to hold it in, Ahsoka knew it wasn't long until he exploded. She saw the vein on his neck bulge and tremble. She gave him about ten more seconds. The clone was rooted to the spot, growing more terrified in the charged silence.

Compassionate, she wanted to send him away, tell him it was no big deal, but then she would be the target of her Master's pent up rage. She had been it enough to know that it was hardly ever fun, and it usually ended with her sitting in the ship, sidelined.

And there was no way she was going anywhere.

Finally, her Master cleaned himself up. The mark on his shirt was larger, but supposedly cleaner. He passively gave the towel back. Ahsoka watched sympathetically as the orderly's shoulders dropped in complete relief.

 _Poor guy, he thinks it's over…_

Then, faster than the clone could react, the Jedi had the boy by the scruff of his scrubs. He leaned in, and the intern squeaked, petrified once more.

"We're going to have a little chat," Anakin said lethally, and he began dragging the boy toward a vacant room.

The intern looked back at her, a desperate plea. Sheepishly, she grinned at him, trying to apologize with her eyes. Knowing there was no hope for him, he hung his head.

There was one thing she knew she didn't want to stay for, and that was the yelling. Walking quickly, she practically ran to the Duchess's room as Sky-guy chewed the clone out. The heads of the waiting room regulars swerved in her direction.

 _Don't turn around. Don't turn around._

The stares of the other people were burning into her back when she finally made it safely to Satine. The doors snapped behind her with a satisfying click, and she sank into a chair at the foot of the hospice bed.

The Duchess's room was small and cozy, like all the others in the hospital wing of the station. The metallic walls were a light gray, while the floors were a sterile white. The bed took up almost half the room and was surrounded by an army of monitors that hummed, buzzed, and breathed.

A plethora of tubes were going in and out the Duchess, preparing her for the Bacta tank. She was scheduled to be in it shortly.

When everything had settled from the frantic run into the ER, the doc-bots had made the diagnosis quickly.

Two broken arms, a punctured lung caused by a bundle of broken ribs, crushed trachea, severe malnourishment, and a crap ton of contusions. Ahsoka had been right. On paper, these injuries should have been fatal, given the amount of time the Duchess went without medical care and also how weak the woman had been when she sustained the worst of it.

Yet the steady beep of the monitors said otherwise.

The tired Padawan ran a heavy hand over her face and leaned her head against the wall, peering at the bright ceiling. Entranced, she stared at nothing in particular, but was lost in vague thoughts. It was hard to believe that it had just been a day. One day.

In that time she had broken into Mandalore, destroyed the palace, escaped with the Duchess and Master Kenobi, fought off a squadron of Death Watch fighters, and seen _two_ full-blooded Sith. She shuddered at the last one.

It had been the first time she felt positively frigid. It was like a premonition, the first biting winds of a blizzard. She felt it impale her to the very core, and didn't have to ask her Master to know.

 _The Dark Side._

Training, she had always supposed that the Dark Side was bad because that was just how things worked. There was always a yin to a yang right?

Now, she knew better.

There might always be a Dark Side, but that did not excuse the Sith. To choose that…. It was unthinkable to her. What made a person that desperate to willingly accept such a hollow, horrible feeling?

She had gotten it wrong. Anger wasn't hot, it was cold—ice cold. The temperature of a sunless planet, it was without any heat at all. It was a corpse, dead and gone.

The Sith may have appeared fiery and recklessly alive, especially Maul, but they were all rotten through. There was nothing inside them but an inky, freezing void.

Blistering on the outside, frozen on the inside—that was a Sith, bad meat.

Absently, she rubbed her bare shoulders, cradled herself with her knees pressed into her chest.

Even though she devoted her life to the Jedi Order, she always thought they were the indifferent ones. The Masters sometimes appeared too calm, too wooden for her tastes. After all, the Council was adamantly opposed to rescuing the Duchess in the first place.

 _And look how that turned out…_ she thought, inwardly rolling her eyes.

The panels whisked open, startling Ahsoka. She couldn't keep herself from cringing. Luckily, it was only a group of doc-bots.

With bright, lightbulb-esc eyes and a grilled, metal muzzle for a mouth, she always thought these droids were the creepiest by far. Their faces appeared vacant and skull-like, an eerie tube sprouted out from their makeshift chin and attached to their bellies. From a distance it looked like a long trail of drool. Their bodies were less unnerving, except for the massive, translucent gap in the middle of their stomachs. She could see the spiraling of electrical wires where intestines should have been. Their spindly, skeletal arms ended in pinchers.

Some of them grasped needles, while others carried bundles of plastic tubing and bags.

Trying to appear nonchalant, Ahsoka stretched and yawned.

"So are you guys taking her to the tank?" she pondered airily.

The lead droid, who had was marked apart from the rest of his group by two white stripes on his forehead, turned his head in her direction.

She had to stifle a shudder.

"Yes, Padawan Ahsoka Tano," it whirred at her while its hands continued working.

The droid's tone was light, almost as if it was sighing at her. Despite the unsettling appearance, Ahsoka found its voice soothing. She guessed that was intended, considering its occupation.

"When will she be out?" she asked as they began to unhook the Duchess from her many IVs and tubes.

"I estimate that she will be fully recovered within a week."

Although a jolt of intense shock rocked through her, she didn't show it. A week?!

Then, the droid swiveled its large, steely cranium back around, focusing completely on directing its subordinates with a series of clicks and beeps. Apparently the other robots had not been given their voice-boxes yet.

Working efficiently, they carried the Duchess out on a hovering stretcher and were gone in a flash. During the entire process, Ahsoka studied the poor woman's face, trying to find an answer. Satine's serenely still expression betrayed nothing, just like on the ship. The Padawan bit back her frustration.

A few seconds after the droids left, she followed suit and went to see if Anakin had finally cooled off.


	29. Scars

**A/N: Here's a big update for ya! Enjoy~ Thanks for the reviews! :D**

The days passed slowly. To Satine it seemed like an eternity.

One minute she was clinging to life, the next she was beneath a blanket of deep sleep. She dreamt vaguely of abstract colors and hazy faces. There were two sets of eyes she kept going back to, each hauntingly familiar—one pair was as blue and bright as the sun reflecting off ocean waves. If she concentrated well enough, they would sparkle mischievously, as if they held some funny secret. Something that they wanted to share with her so the two could laugh together.

The other irises were the opposite. They were the color of infected yellow, like bloated corpses or festering bruises. They were surrounded in a devilish red—a putrid island in a sea of lava. The burning red broke off in terrible branches, streams of blood in dwindling white. There was no happiness, no intrigue, only a terrible, bone-aching anger in dark coal pupils. She did not want to keep studying those monstrous eyes, but found herself unable to escape. The horrible gaze seemed to imprison her very soul.

She found herself begging to be released, crying out for a savior that never came. The evil eyes grew closer and closer until they consumed her. In a river of boiling blood, she writhed and swam against the current. The tides of crimson were merciless. She drowned and all went black once more.

This had happened many times. She had stopped counting.

She tried to stay with the blue eyes for as long as she could. If only she could remain with them, basking in their friendly warmth. Yet, this was never the case. She would only have a few moments before the demon came and snatched her away. It was an endless cycle. It was if she was ascending to heaven only to be dragged back down to hell.

* * *

Every day was the same.

Ahsoka sat boredly on the floor, watching the Duchess float in the Bacta tank. Anakin had given her the permanent assignment of being at Satine's bedside while he stewed about, taking out his frustration on clones and droids alike.

 _Tankside…_ she joked humorously to herself.

With legs-crossed and an elbow propped so that she could rest her cheek on her palm, she sighed dramatically.

She had really wanted to watch the surgery of replacing Obi-wan's arm, but it was apparently "forbidden."

She rolled her eyes.

"Don't see what the big deal is…" she muttered under her breath.

Her Master had said some nonsense about her being a distraction to the surgeons and that it was a "very difficult procedure" but she didn't buy it. The doctors were droids! Could they actually get distracted? It wasn't like she was going to wrestle a Bantha during the surgery.

She sighed again, although it sounded more like a groan. A clicking nurse-bot came in once in a while, checking sheets and screens and stuff like that, but most of the time the annoyed Padawan was alone.

And thoroughly bored.

Sometimes Anakin would sprint in and give her vague, infuriating news and then run back out before she could ask any questions. It was worse than exasperating, it was downright cruel! A few times she had gotten fed up and went to see things for herself, but she had been caught several times now by Sky-guy, who seemed to be patrolling the hallways just for her.

"Nerfherder…" she swore.

Nonetheless, it was nice to hear that Master Kenobi was stable and that his arm replacement was a success. She fidgeted in her spot. She wanted to ask a sea of questions the minute the older Jedi opened his eyes, but she was stuck here!

Most of all, she wanted to see his new arm. How cool was it that it was made of wires and junk like that but still looked normal?! Maybe he even had super strength now! Would he try and hide it under his robes? Would he be ashamed? Or would he brandish it confidently? After all, it was a testament to his skill in combat.

She suddenly felt defensive. Why shouldn't he feel proud?

The Duchess jerked in the tank. Ahsoka peered at her cautiously, ready to sprint to the door.

Most of the time, the injured woman was perfectly still in the watery fluid, gently bobbing like an apple. But, there were always a couple moments a day, usually at the same hour, where the heart monitor would explode and the Duchess would begin to thrash.

Each time, the Padawan had to chase down a 2-1B droid, worried that Satine would hurt herself. The unnerving doctor would calmly follow Ahsoka, tweak a few tubes and twist dials and then the Duchess would settle and go back to floating.

The droid docs kept saying that it would be any day now. The Duchess would wake up soon, but it was an imprecise science. She couldn't be awakened too suddenly, but she couldn't stay in there forever. Her injuries were almost completely healed, but that was not what worried the Padawan.

The Duchess twitched a few more times, causing bubbles, and then relaxed.

Ahsoka exhaled profoundly, not realizing she had been holding her breath. It was chaos each time Satine wigged out. She couldn't help thinking that Master Kenobi would never forgive her if something happened to the Duchess. They had been lucky, beyond lucky, on Mandalore, but Ahsoka still carried a sense of shame.

It had been Satine's choice, but was it hers to make? What was free will and what was plain common sense? Anakin had assured her that the whole ordeal had been out of their hands, but it didn't ease the tension in the Jedi-in-training's chest.

For the first time in Ahsoka's life she had been dumbstruck. They all were. She even doubted the Duchess's own knowledge of her miraculous recovery. No one came back from that. For some reason it angered the girl. She didn't want to sound ungrateful, but why Satine? Why not the men she fought with? The clones that died next to her in battle?

What about the Jedi?

The thought of dead Jedi knights twisted her heart. She hadn't known many of the deceased in the Order, but she still felt as if they were a part of her. Was it fair that they died and not…

She stopped herself. It wasn't her place to ask these almost heretical questions. It was not her will, but the will of the Force, she reminded herself. For some reason, the Duchess had been granted a reprieve. Ahsoka could scream 'why' to the hilltops til kingdom come, but the fact of the matter was, she would never know. The mystery of the Force was just that—a mystery.

It would remain that way forever.

Guilt-ridden, she tried to look upon the Duchess with more empathy. The droids had said that nothing could be done about the terrible markings on Satine's face. A type of rare venom had been used, something foreign and nefarious. Although they looked painful, the docs assured her that the Duchess wouldn't suffer physically from them after a while. The worst of it was over.

Still, the thought of having to be reminded of the horrors of the Sith every day for the rest of one's life was enough to make Ahsoka shudder. Of course cosmetics could be used to soften the appearance, perhaps even cover them completely, but the knowledge of having Maul's imprint would be enough to make anyone deranged.

She shook her head, trying to rid herself of these morbid thoughts.

But what else was she going to think about?

Huffing, she resumed her jaded position, blankly scanning the area.

It was a small space, not much bigger than the last room, but instead of a bed, there was a massive cylindrical water tank. A series of important-looking wires and conduits jutted out from it like tree branches, connecting to various outlets. The tank's top couldn't be seen, it plugged into the ceiling.

When Satine was ready, the fluid would drain and the casing would ascend. Ahsoka would have to be ready to catch the woman, for her muscles would be weak at first.

The Duchess had a large, unwieldy-looking tube jammed down her throat, supplying her with air and keeping her lungs clear. That was probably the worst part of the whole thing.

She was dressed in what looked like a swimsuit as she drifted listlessly in the Bacta fluid. Ahsoka was certainly familiar with the stuff and the revealing attire, she had been in the tank countless times, but never so long.

A week…

"Crazy…"

As if suddenly embarrassed for analyzing Satine so closely, she lowered her gaze as irrational heat sprang up in her cheeks. She was relieved that no one was here to see her look so foolish and that the patterns of white on her face kept her blush relatively hidden.

The Padawans eyes flicked to a plastic bag across the room. It sat unassumingly under the nozzle of a sink. She swallowed thickly. The Duchess's clothes were in there. Ahsoka had restrained herself enough not to go digging through them, but her inquisitiveness was itching relentlessly.

Maybe there was clue to the miracle in there? Maybe she had something in her skirts they hadn't noticed before?

She glanced at Satine, afraid she might wake up, and then hustled over to the bag. Carefully, quietly, she undid the tie and opened it. A waft of dried blood, sweat, and grime greeted her and she turned her head away, gagging.

Nevertheless, something sparkly caught her eye and she snatched it hurriedly before she closed the reeking bag.

Taking a generous step backwards, she studied the small thing in her hand. It was a necklace. She had seen it on the Duchess, but hadn't known what it meant. The strap was rough leather, and Ahsoka could see faint splotches of crimson on it. Her stomach flipped.

A curious emblem hung from it. It looked familiar to the Padawan, as if it had been in one of her textbooks, but she couldn't remember. It was a circle with jagged wings, as if it was on fire. The dread in her gut grew.

If the Sith had wanted it on the Duchess, it couldn't have been good.

Just then, the panels whisked open and Anakin strode it, his eyes and hair as wild as ever.

She practically squeaked as she hid the necklace behind her back.

"Ahsoka—" he began, a slight smile on his face until he saw her.

The corners of his lips tugged down in a deep frown.

"What do you have there?" he asked, completely not fooled by her pitiful attempt to hide the thing.

She gave him a sheepish smile and dropped her eyes to her toes.

"I was just curious is all," she said as she held the necklace out in front of her. "I mean, I've been stuck in here all week!"

"That doesn't give you the right to…"

His lecturing voice trailed off as he realized what he was seeing.

Almost savagely, he snatched it out of her hand, his eyes narrowed in slits as he studied it.

"What is it, Master?" she wondered tentatively.

For a moment he was silent, but then his glaring eyes flicked to hers.

"It is the symbol of the Old Sith Empire," he growled quietly and lowered his gaze back to it.

Ahsoka bit her lip.

"What does it mean?" she continued, afraid she might be pushing her luck.

Anakin's fingers curled around the small bit of metal.

"It's a challenge," he hissed, still not looking at her. "This _thing_ represents the height of Sith power, when they first became an established Order."

Wishing she paid more attention in history class, Ahsoka recalled a few hazy images of a red planet and barbaric temples entrenched in sand as a horde of slaves toiled about. If she remembered right, there had been a thousand years or more of wars between the Jedi and the Sith. All of which ended bloodily yet with a Jedi victory, more or less.

Although the track record was in their favor, she still gulped. What would happen this time?

Before she could ask Anakin about it, a sharp noise pricked her ears—a thump coming from behind. Ahsoka flipped around and immediately saw the Duchess staring at her as she kicked out against the tank walls. The color of her eyes was almost identical to the liquid engulfing her, but her dark pupils were locked on the Padawan, managing to sparkle amidst the scars.

The heart monitor began to wail.

Her Master beat her to the punch and yelled out the door for a droid to come quickly.

Within seconds the skeletal form of a 2-1B droid swiveled in. It whirled its way behind a control panel and immediately began clicking on unseen buttons, adjusting dials. The steady stream of bubbles intensified, and the Duchess began floating upward, but her gaze never left Ahsoka's.

Slowly, the Bacta fluid drained away, shimmering in the fluorescent light. The more the liquid depleted, the more the Duchess leaned against the translucent tank walls. She could be heard coughing, spluttering, attempting to yank the intubation out of her mouth.

The droid flicked one last switch, and the tank hummed as it began to rise into the ceiling. Ahsoka could see the panic in the Duchess's face. The Padawan looked at her Master, who had gone a shade whiter. It was clear he wasn't going near a half-naked woman. She would have smiled and laughed at him for the clear terror in his eyes, but she had to move quickly, lest Satine slip and fall.

Springing into action, Ahsoka snatched onto the Duchess's arm gently as the tank disappeared, leaving Satine swaying like a drunk. The woman was still staring at her, gaze piercing. There was wariness on her features and, at Ahsoka's touch, she flinched as if struck.

"It's ok, Duchess," the girl soothed, giving a warm grin. "I'm not here to hurt you. I can get that thing out of your mouth if you'd like."

Although mangled and pruned, it was still easy to see Satine's beauty. Her wet hair was long, longer than ever. It came down in dampened pale curls, reaching her mid-back, sprawling over her chest. Her marine eyes sparkled, emphasizing a slight greenish hue. It reminded Ahsoka of moss at the bottom of clear rivers.

Nonetheless, although the Padawan saw past the hideous Sith marks, they did seem to sap the Duchess of her usual elegance. The way she stared at Ahsoka was not out of confidence but out of mistrust. Her body was thin, even thinner now that she hadn't had a solid meal in a week, if not longer. Who knew what Maul had fed her?

Her bones protruded disturbingly. Ahsoka could count her ribs, could see the knobs of her wrist and ankles, her clavicle was a stark ridge across her shoulders. Her entire body was pinched, squeezed.

An immense compassion swept through the Padawan, taking away her previous callous attitude.

This woman deserved a second chance.

Cautious, distrustful, the Duchess finally gave her consent in a wordless nod, wincing at the discomfort of the large thing in her gullet. She squeezed her eyes shut, screwing up her face. The Sith tattoos creased and crinkled.

Averse to causing Satine more pain, Ahsoka nonetheless ripped the tube out like a Band-Aid. As it exited, the woman gasped and coughed out a mouthful of water and bile. She began to collapse, but Ahsoka was able to catch her before she hit the cool ground. Anakin was yelling something. Apparently he had gotten over his boyish trepidation.

But the girl didn't notice. She held the soaking wet woman tightly, trying not to notice the prick of her sharp bones. Again, Satine held her gaze hungrily. There was a question bursting beneath her sickly countenance. Ahsoka could probably guess what she wanted to know.

As the army of medics and droids descended upon the pair, the Duchess's mouth gaped open. She had to ask it before they took her away again. The rough hands of the clones were terribly familiar. Some of them wore their masks. Painful images of Death Watch helmets sprang in her mind.

"O-o-b…Oh…b…" she rasped like a ghost, clutching onto Ahsoka viciously.

"He's fine, Duchess," the young Togruta girl assured. "You can see him after you've got your strength back."

"Miss, we need to take her now," a sturdy-looking clone said, putting a hand on the Padawan's shoulder.

At this Satine shook violently. Her breath became hitched and short.

"N-n-no…" she gasped, squeezing Ahsoka's arms so firmly it almost hurt. "P-p-plea…st-t-t-t-aa…"

Her teeth chattered, cutting off her faint words. It was almost too much for the tangerine girl. This was not the Duchess who had fired a blaster at assassins, who had been brave and reminded Ahsoka so much of Senator Amidala, it was almost like she was the one shivering in her grasp.

"I…I think she wants me to stay with her…" the Padawan replied quietly.

She looked over her shoulder at Anakin, eyes pleading, but he was looking away, arms crossed. There was a faint blush on his cheeks.

The lead clone huffed, annoyed.

"I don't care if the whole Jedi Order comes along, but we need to get her to a bed before she catches a cold," he growled. "So if you would please…"

Taking the hint, she shifted over and allowed another clone to help the woman onto a hovering stretcher. Patches of watery stains were all over Ahsoka's gray leggings and burgundy tunic. She held the woman's damp hand as the horde pushed her out of the room. The Duchess whimpered pathetically, her eyes wide as they flicked from clone to clone.

Ahsoka made soothing noises, squeezing Satine's hand now and then, trying to get her to calm down. Nothing appeared to work very well.

Instantly the droids began to clean up the mess the pair had left on the floor. One of them took the Duchess's old clothes and disappeared with them down the hall, supposedly to wash them. Anakin still clutched the Sith necklace in a fist at his side. He took a final look at his apprentice and went the opposite way, probably to check in Obi-wan again.

The man would surely want to know that Satine was awake.

* * *

Sitting rather comfortably in his hospital bed, Obi-wan was blankly reading a holographic newspaper. It was an older addition, but he felt as if he had missed out on quite a lot during his absence. It was also a good distraction from the fact that somewhere in this place Satine was clinging to life.

Grumpily he tugged at the cuff wrapped around his bare ankle.

As soon as his eyes wrenched open, he tried to escape. IVs had been snapped, expensive antibiotics had been wasted, and a few unfortunate clones had been punched in the face.

Luckily, Anakin had been there to restrain him and force him back to bed. After realizing he was not in enemy territory, he had settled, though he still received a chorus of glares from broken-nosed clones.

"Well they got their revenge didn't they?" he mumbled, rolling his eyes at the fetters.

It wasn't as if he couldn't squirm out of them easily, it was the fact if that he attempted another prison break, they would probably make him wait even longer to see Satine. Like a good messenger boy, Anakin ran to and fro between the rooms, keeping him updated, but the burning in his bones to look upon her face again was almost as unbearable as the enforced bedrest.

Putting down the tabloid, he shrugged his shoulders, rolling them backward and forward. Although he had his arm back, there was an odd sensation of soreness and an incessant pinch in it. If he focused too much on it, he could practically feel the wires sprouting through his chest. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the sickening feeling.

It was alien, and his body was surely suspicious of the intruder attached to it. Rarely was the new limb rejected, but it took time to get used to the fakeness, the knowledge that this was not an appendage at all, but a mess of cybernetics.

Perhaps it was all in his head.

With a sigh, he crossed his arms. The hand that usually stroked his bearded chin had been the rudely amputated one. Tentatively, he raised the fake fingers to his beard. He gave it a cursory once over, lightly pinching the whiskers.

"Hmm…" he hummed.

It felt oddly identical. The skin was less callused, unusually soft. It was not a bad sensation, simply different. Yet that was the only change he could detect. His strong, thin fingers stroked the hair just the same. Perhaps he would get used to the thing after all.

He held the robotic hand out and put its organic brother next to it. They looked the same but, unlike his lost one, there were no familiar scars. A pang of sentimental sadness flickered inside. Some of those marks were the best reminders.

There had been one on the back of his hand, near his thumb, that had been where Anakin nicked him with his lightsaber when he had been a boy. There was another, a curved, crescent shaped one that ran across his knuckles where an angry Shaak had bit him on Naboo. He had to get several stitches.

"Blasted thing…" he said, smiling at the memory.

He pushed up the sleeve of his hospital gown.

Other wounds had not been so light-hearted. There had been a bundle of slashes on his bicep from where the Acklay scratched him in the Petranaki Arena on Geonosis. Not to mention countless blaster burns from the Separatist droids.

He swallowed hard as he kept pulling up the sleeve. It was all completely smooth and unblemished. With his other hand, he lightly traced where the old scars had been, reveling in the past. Then, like an apparition careening out of the darkness of his memories, he recalled one last mark.

With a savage purpose, he tore the cloth and twisted his body to get a better look.

Relief pounded through his veins when he saw that some of the scar had been left alone. A slight ridge, a raised, pale line seemed to sprout out of nowhere near his neck, making it obvious to see where they attached the cybernetic limb.

This had been one of his first scars. Like Anakin's, it was from a lightsaber. Unlike the others, it was more noticeable. The wound had been deep and thorough. It had been surgically exact, a disheartening warning.

Mindlessly, he stroked it with one finger. It used to run from the top of his elbow to the bottom of his neck in a perfect slash. In the light it appeared like silver, like a knife imbedded in his skin.

It was the result of a kiss from Maul's double-bladed saber when he had been a Padawan, when he watched his Master die in front of his eyes.

Despite the shouting of his heart, the memory engulfed him.

" _No!" he screamed, tears beginning to stream down his young, tan face._

 _A wall of crimson separated him from helping, from fighting—an impenetrable ray shield._

 _From where the boy stood, it looked like a burning red dot in the middle of his Master's back as Maul stood above him. The Jedi's hands were raised over his head. His green lightsaber had been pointed toward the sky, but flew out of his hand as his enemy's blade scorched through him. He was terribly still, almost stoic as the Sith impaled him._

 _Qui-Gon Jinn's scraggly hair rustled as he collapsed like a sack to the ground, his back to Obi-wan. The red dot disappeared, leaving a bloody hole._

 _Kenobi gazed at his Master's limp body. It was like something out of terrible dream, a nightmare of his worst imagining. It was almost as if Maul had killed them both in one stroke. He could almost feel the heat of the Sith's lightsaber piercing through his chest._

 _Face whitening yet blood rushing like fire under Obi-wan's skin, the murderous Sith turned his attention to the Padawan, horribly silent._

 _He had not spoken a word during the entire battle. He only leapt expertly, twirling in the air, his monstrous red lightsaber dancing as it lashed out like a snake's tongue. The Padawan was completely outmatched. His anger mixed with a dreadful fear._

 _Maul gave a flash of putrid teeth, smiling. He could see the boy's terror on his face as he looked upon his inevitable death._

 _A trickle of sweat ran down Obi-wan's back. His blue eyes were wide, his chest heaved. The Sith, of course, was perfectly calm. He paced wordlessly, waiting for the ray shield to drop so he could pounce on his new prey._

 _This was not the job of a Padawan. Up until this point, everything had been floating in a glimmer of youthful innocence. His entire life as a Jedi-in-training was a grand adventure. He was used to death, but it never seemed to touch him or his Master. They had always managed to escape the jaws of the beast._

 _Now, it appeared the Force had retracted its favor. Reality came crashing down. Already he felt his heart begin to harden, to retreat into an indifferent shell. The horror of his Master's demise was giving way to a callous anger._

 _Obi-wan met the Sith's arrogant, fiery gaze with a determined glare. He clenched his lightsaber in his fist and unsheathed it, his nostrils flared, and his body began to quiver._

I will kill you, _he thought._

 _In response, the Sith triggered his own blade once more. The sneer on his face became a full blown leer._

 _The mechanisms in the wall swerved, and the ray shield gave way. Immediately, Obi-wan charged out, his saber meeting Maul's. He leapt as he struck, trying to put in more strength. The Sith merely parried and then swiped at the boy's head, who ducked and rained down more blows on his hated enemy._

 _Their strikes were barely visible as they whirred through the air, like diving birds, bullets._

 _Obi-wan jumped over a blow aimed at his legs, and the two took a breath away from one another and then began the dance again. In a haze of fury, the Padawan managed to break the Sith's blade in half and kicked him backward._

 _In response Maul, now with only a single blade, unleashed his savagery. He flipped in the air and threw his boot into Obi-wan's face. The boy stumbled back, having to balance himself in a crouch. Taking no time, the Sith slashed out with his saber._

 _Kenobi felt the whoosh of the weapon graze his ear. It took all his might not to close his eyes, for he believed it was a deathblow._

 _Instead he felt a sharp, terrible pain radiating from his right arm. His grasp on his lightsaber loosened, but he managed to spin away before the Sith could sever his head from his body. Gripping his bicep with his other arm, he felt the warm trickle of blood seep through his fingers._

 _Maul pressed forward, merciless. It was all Obi-wan could do to fend the monster off. He felt his strength leaving him as the Sith pushed him closer to the edge of a massive hole in the middle of the area. It seemed to go on forever, probably a duct leading straight to the garbage._

 _The pain was becoming harder to ignore. With a low growl that sounded as if Maul actually laughed, Obi-wan was pushed with a gust of power into the hole. Flailing, he managed to grab hold of a knob, though his lightsaber dropped down, down, down into the depths._

 _Taunting his kill, the Sith swiped at the ground, causing an avalanche of sparks to fly into the boy's face. Sweat was covering Obi's hands. His legs dangled. The wound on his arm was screaming._

 _It was here that he felt like a child again. A rush of self-pity jolted through him. He was only a boy. Every inch of him wanted to bury his face in a pillow, to hide under a bed and forget the realities of the real world._

 _The braid that marked him as a Padawan tickled his neck. As it bounced on his chest, it reminded him with every touch that he was unprepared, unworthy to be a Jedi. Maul grinned horribly down at him, his terrible teeth black with grime. He sensed the boy's fear, his shame for having failed his Master. It was almost worth it to keep him alive, just to drag out his terror._

 _It was at this point that Maul let down his guard an inch. The pathetic boy was not a threat, just a little Padawan, senseless and afraid._

 _He did not realize that Qui-Gon's lightsaber laid unused and perfect for the taking just a few feet away. Unaware, Maul kept raining down embers on the boy, loving the way it made him squirm as he tried to dodge the sparks. A nasty stain of blood was drenching Obi-wan's shoulder, a massive blotch on his traditional light brown Padawan attire._

 _His grip was slipping, a mix of sweat and blood on his fingers, he couldn't hold on. He had to jump._

 _Swallowing his paralyzing fear, he recalled that his Master's weapon sat within his reach. Desperate, he reached in the Force, calling the blade to him. Before the Sith could realize what was happening, too engrossed in the addicting fear emanating from the boy, Obi-wan leapt with all his might upward, as if flying._

 _He sprung out of the hole. Qui-Gon's lightsaber soared faithfully to him. Ignoring the ache of his arm, he landed behind Maul and, as the Sith whipped around, Obi-wan struck with all his might, both hands on the hilt of the blade, swinging it like a bat._

 _It had been like cutting through paper. A cloud of blood burst into the air. It spattered the boy's face, his clothes. The shock on Maul's face was permanently etched. His brow was raised, his mouth twitched in astonishment like a snarling wolf, his yellowed teeth flashing as his marred lips quivered upward and downward._

 _Then, he was falling backward. The black-clothed Sith disappeared into the duct, his weapon clanking against the vent. As the wind tore through him, Maul separated into two sections—a torso and legs—and disappeared into the black._

 _Obi-wan could hear the flop of a body hitting metal with a sickening crunch._

 _He scrambled over to Qui-Gon, but his Master was gone, leaving behind his husk for Obi to cling to. After that, the crystal clear memory of the fight with Maul, preserved by a heavy dose of adrenaline, became a fog of suffering._

 _They found him, cradling the Jedi, rocking backward and forward. Tears slipped down his cheeks silently. A puddle had formed on the ground, on the robes of Qui-Gon, swirling with the blood._

"Obi-wan," a voice tore him from his mind. "Obi-wan, can you hear me?"

He was still staring at his scar, his fingers stroking the small, silvery line rhythmically. With a slight gasp, he dropped his hand and turned toward the form standing tentatively at the foot of his bed.

He could not hide the pain on his face, unable to bury it under the rug in time. The beard helped him feel less vulnerable, but his damned pale eyes had always been annoyingly readable.

Anakin was staring at him, his scarred brow raised. When he saw the look on his friend's face, his eyes widened an inch.

"Are you ok?" he asked softly.

His gaze went to the monitors, searching for a medical reason for Obi's alarming expression.

A flare of annoyance flickered in the bed-ridden man's chest.

"Yes," he hissed at Skywalker, and crossed his arms. "What do you want?"

Anakin's stare was completely unperturbed by the animosity clear in Obi-wan's tone. He was not fooled by the sudden callousness. His mouth became a thin, hard line. He took another moment to study Kenobi. His eyes rested on the ripped sleeve.

"What happened?" he asked, his expression cool.

The image of holding his dead Master clung religiously to Obi-wan's brain. It stuck to it, unshakable. The sorrow and agony of that moment played over and over. He had been foolish to unearth it, to recall it. It had taken years to bury the blasted thing, to put deep into the earth of his skull.

Thousands of days, wasted. His hands shook. He hadn't realized he didn't answer Anakin's question until the boy cleared his throat.

Self-consciously, he shook his head, tried to put himself back into the present.

"Ah, nothing," he responded vaguely, staring intently at the covers, patting them down. "It must have caught on something. You know how cheap the material is."

"Hm," the young Jedi harrumphed, unconvinced.

Obi-wan sighed. There was no way the two of them were going to talk about this. The last thing Anakin needed was another reason to worry and fret.

"What is it Anakin?" he asked again, his tone clipped.

The boy took another moment to give Obi-wan a once over. After a minute or two, he shrugged. A question burned in his eyes, but he respected his friend enough to give him space. Or at least, that's what Kenobi hoped was the case.

"I just wanted to tell you that I have good news," he reported, though his voice did not sound particularly overjoyed. "The Duchess is out of the tank."

As soon as he heard her title, Obi-wan was pulling back the covers, yanking out the IVs, and tugging at the cuff on his ankle.

"Whoa, whoa! Hold on a sec!" Anakin exclaimed as he rushed over to stop Kenobi. "I don't think you should get up just yet…"

But the man was not to be distracted. He shook off Anakin's hand roughly and kept fumbling with the fetter. Finally fed up, he snapped the thing in half with a flick of his wrist.

"Obi-wan, please, just wait another day. That's all I'm askin'."

But the man was not to be denied. He seemed to barely even hear Anakin. With a groan of frustration, the boy gave up and let the hobbled Jedi stumble his way out of bed. But when he made a way for the door, he had to step in.

"People will think you're nuts if you go out like that," Anakin warned, and he snagged the back of the hospital gown before the panels could whisk open. "At least change first."

Somehow, this piece of advice got through Obi-wan's seemingly deaf ears, and he nodded once. With a crack of his hand, he slapped Anakin off and limped to the bathroom. The arm had been obviously the worst of his injuries, but his legs had healed only recently. Splotches of bruises ran along his temples and ran diagonally along his nose.

The docs had tried to offer him a spot in the Bacta tank, but he wanted to wait for the Duchess before he signed up for it. He knew his legs still needed a good soaking, some parts of them still felt spongy, but it was something that could be delayed for a little while longer.

Thankfully, as he shut the door, a clean pile of clothes awaited him on the sink counter. Upon closer inspection, he realized that they were his. Grudgingly, he thanked Anakin silently for bringing an extra set of them. It had been too long since he wore his usual white jerkin, with the dark undershirt peeking through beneath, the comfortable tan leggings, and the sturdy, form-fitting gloves. There was no formal robe, he usually despised wearing one, but Anakin had remembered to bring his brown leather boots and belt. Looking down upon these articles, they almost seemed to be from another lifetime.

Nevertheless, he stripped, and then donned them. It was like putting on the mantle of responsibility once more. He could no longer be the scared boy crying over the body of his Master. Under the pile of clothes was his lightsaber.

His hand reached for it but then stopped.

 _This isn't my hand._

The thought made his heart pound. How much of himself would he lose in the coming years?

He suddenly sneered, disgusted by his squeamishness. The arm he lost was not him. It was only a part of the prison. After all, the body was just temporary, just a passing vocation. What did it matter if he was cut to pieces? As long as his soul remained, there wasn't a problem.

At least, there _shouldn't_ be a problem.

 _No. No problem._

Without another thought, he snatched the saber from the countertop and attached it to his belt.

His gaze looked briefly in the mirror.

The man in it was glaring, twisting his entire face, but his eyes were glimmering with a pitiful helplessness. The beard and hair were ruffled, and he took a second to adjust them, patting them both down, using his fingers as a comb.

Kaleidoscope bruises painted his face a variety of colors, but they were turning yellow like leaves in the Fall. They no longer bothered him, but it did make him seem a bit peaked.

He turned his attention to his entrenched scowl and forced his face to relax. It did so reluctantly, so he splashed it with water, trying to calm the nerves.

He grabbed a towel and slammed it against his cheeks. Then, he buried his nose into it and heaved a long, withered sigh. A tension that sprouted from the bottom of his spine to his head eased. He took several more breaths, and with each exhale the memory of Qui-Gon faded slightly.

A rapping sounded at the door.

"Are you ok in there?"

Instantly, he tossed the towel to the ground and turned around from his somber reflection. The door swung open, and Anakin was caught, his hand in the air, mid-knock Quickly he lowered it and crossed his arms, uncomfortable.

"Ready?" he pondered cautiously.

Obi-wan's face was blank, and he was trying very hard to keep it that way.

"Yes," he said woodenly, and strode past his friend. "Let's go."


	30. Always

The Surgical Intensive Care Unit they had put him in after reattaching his arm was not much calmer than the ER. It had larger bedrooms, but harried doctors and spinning droids scooted past Obi-wan and Anakin as the two made a haphazard path for the waiting area.

Sometimes the parties coming in and out would drag a bloody clone with them, his limbs hanging limply off the sides of the stretchers or flailing in the air as he screamed. Then, he would disappear around a corner, headed for immediate surgery. Each time the Jedi passed such a clone, Obi-wan saw his own face in the poor patient. It had just been a week ago that he was in the same position. He wondered if he had shrieked as loudly. Anakin told him that he had been unconscious, but Kenobi couldn't help but feel unnerved by the sights and sounds of dying men.

There was nothing like being armless, bloody, and careening through a hospital filled with clones that made a man feel self-conscious.

The scent of blood seeped, oozed, out of every pore of this place. The two Jedi wrinkled their noses, held in their breath as they walked quickly down the seemingly endless hallway. It was a relief to finally reach the doors leading out. The navy-blue panels swooshed open, clicking, and a gust of sterile air alleviated some of the stench.

As they stepped into the busy area, Obi-wan did not expect what awaited him. In his usual garb, patched together again, he became recognizable to the clones that lived eternally in the somber waiting room. Their bodies appeared to be attached to the mended, scraggly chairs that surrounded the crescent-shaped counter, which sat in the middle of the large chamber.

Behind that massive desk, spotlighted by the gaudy light fixtures, nurses of all shapes and sizes scribbled furiously and were called to and fro, being pulled in twenty different directions. They did not even notice that the room went suddenly still and silent. Their footsteps seemed to echo as they ran around like worker bees.

When the weary, weak-hearted clones saw the Jedi, they did not applaud or cheer or anything so ridiculous, but an immense hush swept throughout. Their uniformly shaved heads turned in Obi-wan's direction, their ashen eyes widening.

"It's General Kenobi…" some of them whispered, while others nodded enthusiastically.

"…defeated a Sith Lord…"

"I heard two of them! With _one a_ rm!"

"…took on an army all by himself…"

"You should've seen him on Tatooine…"

"Please. Heard of Kamino?"

"The Negotiator in the flesh!"

As a General, he was used to the quiet admiration, but he tried not to let it affect him. Now, however, he was out of practice. It struck him suddenly how much he had changed in that month away from the front lines. War was certainly never easy, but imprisonment under Maul had pulled the rug out from under him.

His hands shook, and a sharp tang of salt water rushed under his tongue.

A sea of eyes was on him—all of them identical.

He sensed the vibrant, overpowering feelings of the clones—sadness, hope, anger, worry, as well as a stubbornness that would impress even Anakin. Most of them were solely focused on seeing their injured friends again, but his appearance gave them a slight reprieve from the daily death anxiety.

What could he say? No words or actions seemed correct, appropriate.

Anakin hung back, but Obi-wan could feel his looming presence. The Knight wanted to move, wanted to pick up his feet and run, but he was rooted to the spot. The blank expression he had worked so hard to maintain was cracking as he looked upon the battle-scarred, partially armored men.

Finally, Anakin put his heavy hand on Obi's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Are you sure you don't want to get some more rest?" he asked quietly, leaning close to Kenobi's ear. "There's no rush."

Swallowing the bitter bile that threatened to burst out of his mouth, Obi-wan shook his head mutely. He gave a slight cough and rolled his shoulders, wincing marginally at the pinch in his right one. After taking a few moments, he lifted his honey-bearded chin and placed his gloved hands behind his back resolutely.

With a gracious smile and a proper bow to the awaiting clones, he started toward the door panels to his left—the Critical Care Unit, where Satine was supposedly being held now. The limp that seemed to be a permanent part of his gait only increased the clones' awe of him—it proved that the rumors were true.

Their intense gazes followed him, an invisible weight on his back. The blood pounding in his ears drowned out the whispers. His heart had apparently decided that it wanted to fly—it struggled to break free from his chest.

It took a concerted effort to keep breathing. They really had to make the body armor of the troopers less nefarious-looking. It reminded him too much of Death Watch, of Mandalore. Quick flashes of memories flooded into his head, almost all of them painful: the crunch of his body hitting the ground after Maul sliced him to bits, or the incoming fists of soldiers as they bludgeoned him, or the helplessness as he was unable to stop the Sith as he stomped on his leg, snapping it in two, the eternal darkness, all alone in an ocean of pure black.

Then there was Satine, struggling to breathe...

At that last one, he cringed.

 _Snap out of it!_ he chastised himself, digging his nails into his palm. _You're a General! Act like it!_

That was just the thing. In war, everything was chaos all the time. The few breaths between bloody plunges were barely enough time to process the events of earlier that day, much less a time to truly reflect on life.

In the whirlwind, it was easy to ignore the dying screams of men, easy to look on blood with disdain, easy to send brave soldiers to their deaths. It was all a part of the job.

Plus, being a Jedi, he had been trained to be as disciplined, and as indifferent, as possible. If he could not see clearly in the throng of anarchy, then many more men would die. He found he had been very good at it. Devising strategies had always been his strong suit.

What really had driven him mad were the countless hours during his imprisonment.

That time had taken his deadened heartbreak over Satine and reanimated it. All the years stuffing her down, down, down, only for her to come back with a vengeance, like some sort of restless apparition.

How long would it take to re-bury his closeted skeletons?

Yet, how could he not think about the Duchess? How could he turn a blind eye when she was just out of his reach, being tortured by the Sith?

Aside from the psychological agony, his brush with his own demise was a daily occurrence and an eventual guarantee for him. Perhaps that was the root of this gut-crushing feeling. Perhaps his fear of death was stronger than he thought.

Musing to himself, he shook his head slightly and put a hand to his chin.

No, that wasn't it.

For if Obi-wan was being honest with himself, ever since Qui-Gon died there had been a festering hole in the middle of his heart that was indifferent to such things. He welcomed death. He openly invited it every time he set off to an alien planet to do battle with hordes and hordes of Separatists, or every time he sought out one-on-one combat with Grievous, Ventriss, Dooku...

It had become a belief of his that he was invincible until he wasn't.

What had changed? What was it that made his body quiver now with nervousness, with abject _fear_? Satine was safe, right? The looming shadow of the Sith had passed…for now at least.

If only he could get himself under control.

His teeth ground together. What was this horrible feeling in the pits of his soul? Why was it making him act so silly?

It could be that Anakin was right. Perhaps he needed to sleep a bit more.

He hadn't noticed he was following numbly behind the boy until he ran into his back. Startled, he cocked a brow. They were still a few paces away from the nearest door.

The young Jedi appeared distressed. He ran a hand through his tangled mess of brown hair and clutched the back of his strained neck.

Obi gave him a puzzled look.

"What is it?"

Anakin blew out a breath, not meeting his eyes.

"I, uh…I don't know if you should..." he mumbled.

Obi-wan gave him a moment to collect his thoughts. They were bound to come out eventually—probably in the rudest way possible.

Patiently, he put his trembling hands behind his back, clasping them tightly to clamp down on the exasperating vibration. Unperturbed, the quiver began to sprout up his arms, threatening to invade his chest. It took every ounce of strength to keep it contained while his friend mulled.

Then, blessedly, Anakin seemed to figure it out. He straightened, regaining his usual confidence. Obi-wan was close to shattering, and peered at the door longingly. Luckily his beard hid the tremble of his lips well enough.

"I don't think you should see the Duchess," Anakin said stoutly and then added in the same breath: "At least not yet."

Although unsurprised, Obi had to swallow the outrageous hypocrisy. He, too, had no time to spare feelings. The terrible shake was driving him to a breaking point. He wondered if Anakin could hear his teeth practically chattering as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Would you wait if it was Senator Amidala in there?" he questioned back, unable to hide the bite in his words.

The question struck a nerve.

Anakin's face went through a mirage of emotions, ranging from astonishment to rage to hurt and then finally rested on callousness. The scar over his right eye crumpled in frigid resentment, his mouth thinned and became a slit in his face, and his jagged features became razor-sharp as his powerful jaw clenched.

He stepped away from Obi like he carried some infectious disease.

"Fine," he hissed through clamped teeth. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Then, he took off toward the waiting area, his footsteps practically causing cracks in the tile.

Obi-wan studied his back as he stomped away and, when the boy was safely out of range, he let the trembling take over. It shook him to the core, but there was palpable relief in letting it usurp him.

As he jerked to escape the luckily empty hallway, he peered over his quavering shoulder, staring at where his friend had been just a moment ago. Although he tried to see straight, his vision soon bobbed, making him dizzy, and he had to press his chin down, bite his cheek.

Regret ate away at him. He had gone too far. Weary, he put a twitching palm to the wall and leaned heavily on the hand.

 _Not real,_ came the accusation.

Instantly, he whisked his arm backward as if the gray steel had shocked him. Again, he stared at the copy of his arm, opening the shivering fingers and closing them. In and out, in and out, he watched the thump of what looked like a muscle in his wrist pound against his tight-fitting sleeve. He swallowed.

 _Wires._

A massive shudder waved over him, almost knocking him over.

Slowly, he lowered himself to the cold ground, his back against metal. With a heavy sigh, he cocked his quaking head to the side. He couldn't see Satine like this, as if he was falling apart at the seams.

So, he decided to wait the jitters out.

The corridor was hauntingly quiet. There was a sense that speaking was not allowed in this area. It had the sleepy aura of comatose.

 _Fine by me,_ he mused as he inhaled and exhaled deeply.

In through the nose and out through the mouth, as he breathed he felt more in control. The extra oxygen was doing him good and, as the shudders lessened, he stretched out his legs and crossed his arms. A light was flickering above him, the only noise in the hallway.

It was going to be a long, hard day, now that he mucked it up with his rash words.

He hoped that he could get back into Anakin's good graces without having to resort to death-defying gestures. Knowing Skywalker, he would probably make Obi-wan jump out of a racing speeder as an apology. Or worse, having to sit in passenger seat while Anakin drove in rush hour—a recipe for suicidal disaster.

He would have shuddered at the thought, but he supposed he was doing enough of that. Though the feeling was receding slowly, beginning with his chest and spreading to his limbs, he didn't want to risk its return by being too hasty to get up.

He curled his toes in his boots and cracked his neck.

As he began to feel more stable, his gaze went back to the panels leading out to the waiting area.

There was a reason that the clones did not seem to stare at Anakin in wonder like they did him.

He did not invite admiration, he did not want it. Not that Obi-wan was particularly fond of hero worship. It could be a costly distraction. Although men dream of fighting with those they greatly respect, it rarely goes according to plan. Many clones had frozen, afraid of making a mistake in front of him or other Jedi.

Anakin did not seem to have such a problem.

The clones did not fear that they would lose Skywalker's favor, they were afraid that they would lose their heads. They weren't far off. No one could yell like Anakin.

 _It's all in the lungs,_ Obi-wan joked and managed to cough a steady chuckle.

Yes, the young Jedi was a bit of an enigma. Unlike most Generals, he didn't want anyone, anywhere, near him unless they were on the front lines together. There were walls on walls on walls built around his heart. Only a few ever were able to sneak their way in and, when they did, they never left.

Even after death.

This was his greatest curse, the purpose of the walls: Anakin could not let go. Someday it would be the death of him, this Obi-wan was sure. He just didn't know when or how.

Until that day, he tried to acquaint the boy with loss, tried to make him see that life could not go on forever. Even Yoda would die eventually. It was unavoidable. Anakin had surely seen enough death on the field to realize this cold fact.

Yet, even though he told Obi-wan he understood, it was clear he hadn't taken the lessons to heart. The boy believed he could save the ones he loved, that he would always get there in time.

Of course, Obi had learned the hard way that friends and family were never left untouched by the ravages of reality. In fact, they were usually the first to fall victim. If the Clone Wars had taught him anything, it was that no one was safe. Both the Republic and the Separatists had red, crimson-soaked hands when it came to this. Innocence was an obsolete notion.

Nevertheless as he sat at the door leading to Satine, he realized he was a poor example. How much had he sacrificed to keep her alive? Anakin may have been rash, but he wasn't blind. It had been made extraordinarily clear that the Duchess was Obi-wan's greatest weakness, yet she was also something that the Knight could not bear to live without.

It seemed both he and Anakin had the same Achilles heel, yet neither was willing to do something to stop it.

A challenge arose in his mind.

 _Then be the first. Quit Satine cold turkey._

The very thought sent him breathless. He remembered her dead, lifeless, on the ground and the memory almost brought the uncontrollable shakes back. No, he couldn't. Not now, anyway.

The shame of his attachment gnawed away at him again—a permanent companion.

It was his fault that Anakin had become so emotionally involved. The student was only as good as the Master, after all.

He had hidden Satine from his pupil, but the secret was now exposed for all to see like a gushing artery. Anakin had not said so, but Obi-wan knew that if he approached his friend about Senator Amidala, he would get a wad of spit in the face and a sea of righteous anger, and there would be nothing the Knight could say.

How was it fair that he could he risk his life so foolishly, so obviously, for the Duchess and then turn around and lecture Anakin about the danger of attachment?

 _I'm the hypocrite,_ he thought sadly. _Not Anakin._

So, the problem remained fixed in the air, hovering above their heads like a boulder, waiting to crash down upon them.

For now, he decided that he would have to make it up to his friend later.

"And how…" he muttered.

As he spoke, he noticed that the trembling had completely subsided, although his flesh still retained its faint imprint. There was tingle tickling the back of his throat, but he had waited long enough. Pushing Anakin to the back of his head, he stood nimbly. The new arm hadn't affected his balance thus far, which was a good sign, though he still distrusted it.

Immersed as he was in his thoughts, he hadn't prepared himself well for his first meeting with Satine with all those morbid notions of war and star-crossed lovers.

Yet, before he could restrain himself, he was through the panels. His breath caught in his throat as he looked upon her resting figure. There she was. It felt surreal, a reverie.

Instantly he knew why he had been so nervous, why he couldn't seem to keep still. It wasn't the clones or the trauma or Anakin. It was _her_. It would always be her, making him feel like a sheepish adolescent, turning his mind and body to plasma.

Once more, Anakin had been annoyingly right. He wasn't prepared. Seeing Maul's last gift, those horrible black etches carved permanently into her flesh, it made him want to get into a fighter and track the Sith until his dying day, made him want to rip the Dathomirian's heart from his chest, and so much more.

His mind darkened, swimming through black waters. Just thinking about the Sith made his veins boil and his heart pound with silent fury.

A faint voice bubbling on the air pulled him back to earth.

Satine had mumbled something in her sleep. Her lips quivered sweetly as she spoke, dreaming. Without realizing, he began to smile. It stretched across his love-struck face stupidly.

Her melodic mutter snapped his rage in half, and he let the face of Maul sink back. Anger would not change what happened. He should have known that by now.

As he cooled, his icy glare eased and softened as he gazed upon her.

Her hair was sprawled across the pillows, like billowing sheaves of wheat. Although the black streaks on her features sickened him, they did seem to enhance her pronounced cheekbones as they cut across them expertly, pooling under her bow-string lips.

The white, itchy covers went up to her shoulders, but he could see the outline of her twisted body and bent legs underneath.

She slept on her back, her hands thrown out on either side of her turned head. One was curled into a tight fist. Every few seconds she would twitch or gently kick under the sheets, and it made his heart somersault. It must have been a lively dream.

 _Or nightmare…_ he mused.

Her face suddenly pinched, creating black crinkles. The infantile mumbles became little gasps of horror, confirming his nightmare theory. The obvious pain there saddened him—he wanted to steal it away.

He took a tentative step toward her, and her brow relaxed. The action gave him an irrational hope. Was it his presence that had calmed her?

 _Don't be an idiot,_ the cynic side of him spat.

Nonetheless, the vengeance that had burned so vividly just a moment ago began to drain out of him, overpowered by his need to be near her, to protect her.

He was only a few paces away, but he didn't want to wake her. Biting his bristled lip, he took another silent step.

A few tubes connected to her, but it wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. The Bacta tank had done it again. Bruises lined her throat where she had been strangled, and her skin seemed far too pale, but she was here, she was _alive_.

Again, she began to groan, and her little jerks became more violent.

Unable to keep his self-control intact, he tip toed over to her bedside in a flash, his feet as quiet as Loth-cat paws. As he crouched down next to her, her tension alleviated and she emitted a tranquil exhale. It took the remaining pain out of her face, and it sent an electrifying thrill through his veins.

"Calm down, old boy," he chanted to himself in a hush. If the shaking started, he would have to leave.

The steady beep of the heart monitor picked up a notch and then sank back down.

His eyes widened. This couldn't be a coincidence. It was like her entire being was sewn together with his. In each other's presence, neither of them could hide their obvious feelings, even though she was unconscious! The enormous smile came back from the depths of his beard, plastering his face. How could he stay away from her when it felt so terribly right?

His heart wouldn't slow, his blood rushed like white water rapids.

It may have been against all Jedi code and law, but he decided, in this moment, it no longer mattered. The weight that had been compressing his chest released. The captivating worry that had stretched from his boots to his skull set him free.

He was light as a feather, practically ethereal. If she hadn't been holding him here, he would have floated into the atmosphere. It had been years since he felt like this. Not since he first met her had he been this weightless.

He had been a cocky boy then, brooding behind his Master as they talked to another stiff, posh politician. It hadn't been love at first sight, though he thought she had been incredibly beautiful, especially in the sun.

But these people always were. It was the job of a ruler to appear better-looking than everyone else. Sure they might have been attractive, but they were also completely hollow.

It was only when the two of them were alone, running from bounty hunters, that he realized she had a sharp tongue, a biting wit, behind that angelic face. It sent him reeling, like a knock-out punch. Then, when the two of them landed on that dusty planet, hiding in caves, avoiding detection, he knew he was done for.

He found it impossible not to talk to her. Her giggle was infectious, addicting, and the way she peered at him, as if she could see right through him, as if they had known each other for a lifetime instead of a few months…it was indescribable.

Even better, she was not one to let anyone fight battles for her. A couple times she had saved him, handy with a blaster. After which she would give one of her priceless quips, usually at his expense, and it felt like he could laugh for days.

Then, the adventure was over. She went back to Mandalore, he went back to training. His dreams slowly faded until they were nonexistent.

If only she had asked him then. If only she had asked him to leave the Order, right there in those caves, he would have agreed without a moment's hesitation. The Clone Wars had not begun, his responsibilities had not crashed down upon him. Qui-Gon was still alive. Anakin had not been discovered.

In his wildest fantasies, he imagined them together anywhere, everywhere—in the deserts of Tatooine, or huddling in the blizzards of Hoth, or perhaps camped in the secluded woods of Endor. Maybe they would have traveled the galaxy.

With youthful naivety, he had made a plan to become a Jedi Knight, just so he could pledge himself to her. Knights did that right? At least they had in all his books. That image, of him standing bravely next to her, defending her from all that would do her harm, was what kept him going for many dark nights.

Then he would remember that she was a Duchess and he was a fledgling Jedi, barely twenty. Of course, she wasn't much older, but their responsibilities kept them squarely apart. Qui-Gon's death sealed their fate.

Even now, he still had wistful, stupid dreams. Why hadn't he learned? The will of the Force was quite clear. He was not meant to fall in love. He was not meant to be happy.

Staring at the crumples in the covers, he almost jumped out of his skin when a small, soft touch grazed his bruised cheek. The delicateness of it was fondly familiar, as was the voice that breathed his name, though it was cracked and wispy.

"Obi."

Satine was awake.

And she was peering at him. Her usual perceptive stare was just the same. It made him embarrassed, for he probably looked foolish or vulnerable, crouching there, reflecting on things that never were and would never be. A flush of heat spread through his body and collected in his face. He had to cough to expunge it, hoping that she hadn't noticed the sudden red.

Then he went to take her roaming hand in his—his real one—holding it close to his chin. It was as easy as breathing, and as dangerous as a drug. Her willowy fingers intertwined gently through his.

"I'm sorry for waking you," he apologized, his voice barely loud enough for her to hear. "Do you want me to leave?"

Her grasp tightened noticeably.

"No," she said, and he was surprised by the strength in it. "Please, stay."

No words came to his swollen, useless tongue so he nodded mutely.

Her grip loosened, but she didn't let go as she leaned heavily against the pillows, still staring at him, through him.

"I suppose it wasn't a dream, then," she said vaguely, softly, and then gestured with her other hand to the ostentatious monitors. "All this. Mandalore. Maul."

At the name of the Sith, Obi-wan stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath as he did.

"No," he managed to growl. "It wasn't."

She sighed and her lids fluttered as she tried to keep herself awake. She had been perhaps a bit too naïve to think that the entire ordeal had simply been a bad nightmare. Nevertheless, she was supremely enjoying the feel of Obi-wan's fingers laced through hers. The material of his glove was silken, smooth and soft against her bony, frigid hand.

The heavy doses of drugs that kept her calm made everything feel heavy and shadowed. All that was clear was Obi's face. It seemed to be alighted, as if a fire was lit beneath his skin.

It made her heart soar to see him in his usual gear. He always looked so handsome in it, she thought. The way the light, earthy colors mixed so perfectly with his tan features, his bourbon hair, and the sky-blue of his eyes always made her knees feel weak. When she had first seen him after he became a Knight, it was like seeing a childhood friend become a dashing suitor.

The years had passed so unassumingly, the image of him in her head had been the bright-eyed boy, covered in sand and grime as he carried her up a mountain, cracking jokes as he did so. But that boy had grown up. His youthful cheeks had thinned, the blue of his eyes went in and out of dark storm clouds, and his dimpled chin became hidden beneath a mess of sandy hair, as if he was intentionally burying his past.

With an odd sense of confidence, she reached with her other hand and rested it on his whiskered cheek, trying to find that boy again. He didn't fight it. In fact, he leaned into her frail palm. A spark flickered on the air.

"You know," she mumbled as she stroked his beard, a white smile growing on her black-streaked face. "I've become rather fond of this thing."

He grinned, and the honeyed bristles gently pricked through her fingers. The smile, unfortunately, did not complete wipe away the subtle tempest in his eyes.

There was something he was holding onto, something he had to exorcise. A pang of concern ricocheted in her ribs, but the strength needed to keep a hand on his face left her, and she lowered her sore, weak arm. Worry flashed on his features, his eyes flicked toward the door.

"I'm fine," she said, reading his mind as she lay back down, settling.

As her pale, corn-silk hair swept over the pillows, she narrowed her eyes at him.

"But you aren't," she didn't guess but asserted. "What's wrong Obi?"

He shouldn't have been surprised. Satine was too smart, knew him too well, not to see the pain on his face, like a raincloud hanging above him. He did not try and hide it, but this was not the time to be divulging and debunking his idiotic fantasies.

"It's nothing," he deflected, trying to force himself content. "It can wait."

She would have argued but there was a bone-deep weariness creeping up on her.

He saw the look on her sharp yet delicate features, sharper now, as her jagged jaw slackened and her repaired lips turned down like an sideways crescent moon. Her thin body was sagging, wanting to go back into hibernation. With a cocky expression, he cracked a smirk as he fondled the covers.

"Sleepy are we?"

She gave him a look and began to giggle weakly. Even beaten and broken, the sound was enough to send him soaring.

"Only because you're so boring," she shot back at him, rolling her eyes jokingly.

The two began to chuckle lightly again, but then she started to cough. Her bones seem to rattle with each hack. The tension pounced back on his shoulders.

Hurriedly, he went to fill a glass cup of water from the adjacent sink. In seconds, he was back at her side, lightly handing her the cup. Unable to speak over the frog in her throat, she tried to give him her best grateful look and hungrily drank. It was wonderfully refreshing, like rain after months of drought.

The coughs subsided, and he took the empty thing away from her and placed it on the bedside table. There was an immense caution on his face, and she supposed he was wondering if he should call for a droid.

"I told you," she told him stubbornly, forcing her lids open. "I'm fine. Just a tickle."

He didn't seem to believe her, but there was no way he was leaving through those doors, not if she had something to do about it. Like a lure, she held her hand out for him to take again, which he did without hesitation. Their fingers naturally resumed their interlocked state, as if they were two puzzle pieces finally fitting together at last.

The profound fatigue was fading her vision. It was clear she was nodding off. A gentle numbness was spreading up her body as she lost herself in his warm presence.

"I should go…" he announced sadly, and he began to get up.

Again, she held him down with a power that she did not seem to possess. Unable to deny her anything, he stopped. As her body and mind ripped her away from the world of the waking, she managed to look at Obi-wan lucidly for a fleeting moment.

"Stay with me," she whispered, her blonde locks tumbling across her fragile shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face.

Without waiting for an answer, she closed her dark-lidded eyes and her breath eased into sweet, peaceful inhales and exhales—the ebb and flow of ocean tides on the sand. The sound of her sleeping was lovely, and he wished he could join her in her dream world. The fact that he couldn't made him sigh sadly.

Some things were not meant to be.

Bittersweet, he unlocked her fingers from his and gently placed them next to her on the bed. Then, he stood and retrieved a chair from across the room. Quietly dragging it to the same place at her bedside, he sat stiffly and curled his gloved hand over hers as he studied her sleeping form.

"Always," he finally answered.


	31. Call

_One week later._

The days passed in blinks. One minute, Obi-wan had been beside Satine, holding her hand, waiting with bated breath, and the next he was being dragged down the sterile, eye-aching halls toward the Bacta tank.

The 2-1B droids had been antsy all week. They had their orders, their programming, to put him in a tank, and there was little he could do to sway them.

He had managed to fend them off for a couple days now, granted a reprieve, so he could be by Satine twenty-four seven, but they were resilient, pesky things. They soon realized that they could not convince him to leave her, so they went around his back. The word got to Anakin, and the rest was history.

 _Traitors…_ he thought heatedly.

It appeared the boy was still angry with him, for he seemed a bit too willing to drag Obi-wan out of the Duchess's room and escort him personally to the tanks. Even now, he had the Knight in a deadlock, almost pulling him off the ground by the sleeve.

"Really, now," Obi-wan complained with a grunt. "This is completely unnecessary, Anakin. I'm perfectly capable of walking."

His friend didn't look at him, but he was sure the young Jedi was smiling haughtily, relishing as Obi-wan staggered and resisted.

"I'm just following orders," he replied matter-of-factly.

Kenobi was immediately skeptical. He narrowed his eyes at Anakin's chin. It was a pity the boy had grown to be so tall. Obi longed for the days when he towered over him. It made discipline and intimidation far easier.

Now it was the Knight who felt like the child as he stumbled petulantly—practically being tugged along by the scruff of his neck.

"Whose?" he snapped in abject doubt. "And since when have _you_ been one to follow orders?"

Anakin said nothing, but he did glance in Obi-wan's direction, a crooked smile on his face—a flash of teeth glittering. The doors became less frequent and wider the closer the pair got to the tanks. The terribly bright light seemed to dim.

Kenobi heaved a sigh, sorely tempted to kick Anakin in the shin.

"This is payback for the other day, isn't it?"

The boy's smile increased. His hurricane eyes shimmered with mischief.

"Now why would you think that?" he asked, faking innocence.

Just as he said it, they came into a large circular area. A set of impressive panels sat across the room, facing Obi-wan, but on the way to it was a curved counter. A handful of nurses worked quietly behind it in their familiar scrubs.

It was clear that the Jedi would have to go through them before they continued their journey.

There were fewer people here than in the general admission section, but there were always a few clones decorating the sporadic chairs—leaning, sleeping, oblivious.

Completely unaffected, Anakin strode casually to the front of the waist-high desk, not releasing his embarrassing hold. A bored nurse sat with her head in her hand, scribbling tiredly on a holographic board.

She was a Twi'lek. Her skin was a vibrant shade of green, like emeralds, and was only enhanced by the bright white of her uniform. She wore a silken headband which had black, vine-like patterns crisscrossed over a magenta background. It contrasted drolly with her drained expression.

Her jade head-tails were thrown over one shoulder as she leaned on her hand, elbow propped. She couldn't have been much older than Ahsoka, but there was a lucid sharpness in her tired gaze and a sense of impressive duty that reminded Obi-wan of the headstrong Padawan.

As the Jedi approached, she peered up, expecting the usual. However, when she noted the style of their attire, the lightsabers hanging brazenly on their belts, her face paled and she straightened, bolting upright.

At first she stared with wide, dark-brown eyes, her gaze ping-ponging between Anakin and Obi-wan, until they finally rested on the younger Jedi. The Knight wasn't surprised. Skywalker was an eye-catcher.

"Hello," Anakin greeted lightly, although his voice never seemed to match his grizzled, hardened appearance. "We have an appointment."

The patronizing way he said it made Obi-wan heave a sigh.

"I hate you…" he muttered, too low for them to hear.

Or so he thought. Anakin tightened his grip and tugged the Knight around, forcing him to face the Twi'lek nurse. Her eyes reluctantly met Obi-wan's.

He gave her a tight grimace and a nod, knowing he looked like a mental patient. He hadn't looked at himself in the mirror, but he felt his usually perfectly combed hair stick out on the sides, twisting in tangles at the nape of his neck. His beard had grown out again, and came down in scraggly curls. It didn't help that Anakin was holding his sleeve as if Obi-wan could start biting people at any second.

Quickly, most likely unnerved by the sight of him, she looked back at Anakin.

"What's the name?" she asked with a slight accent and a cough, flinging her head down, a rosy blush on her green cheeks.

Things proceeded hastily from there. Anakin had weaseled his way out of the paperwork, and in a haze of minutes, Obi-wan was being hauled through the looming panels. Then, without so much as a goodbye, his former apprentice dropped him off at the door to his specified Bacta tank and left.

He mumbled swears and entered into the familiar set-up. The tank was empty, awaiting him. As the door whisked shut, he thought he could hear Anakin laughing.

* * *

Apart from the tube lodged in his mouth, down his throat, the experience of being plopped into a Bacta tank was rather relaxing. Of course, he was unconscious for most of it, but he never minded being drugged into a coma. He so rarely was able to sleep nowadays without help anyway.

Then, it was over and he was shaking the fluid out of his hair, running a towel through the sopping snarls.

While he was out, they had washed his clothes. He could detect the calming scent of soap on them. He dressed, combed his hair and beard with his fingers and, without asking permission, stormed out the doors.

He passed the busy nurses, none of them seemed to notice his presence, and was pacing quickly down the familiar corridors. The lighting became flagrant, and he had the urge to squint. The more crowded the halls became, the more people began to recognize him. He quickened his steps, noticing that his usual limp had all but vanished.

There was only a temporary-feeling of stiffness from not having moved for hours—another downside to the Bacta tank. Usually after a good soaking, people were bedridden, but he was too edgy to stay still. Hadn't he rested enough?

In all honesty, he was in a rush to get back to his usual station of being attached to Satine's side. She needed him, he told himself.

It wasn't an outright lie.

The heavy doses of drugs they utilized when she first arrived were incredibly weakening, draining. On them, she could barely keep her eyes open for more than a few hours a day. It seemed to ease her waking suffering, but she couldn't stay on them forever. It wasn't healthy, and Obi-wan was worried about her becoming dependent on them.

However, as she slowly waned off them, she began having panic attacks. Her body had healed, but her mind needed repairs. She screamed like a banshee whenever a 2-1B droid came in, and it didn't fare much better with clones or nurses. In everyone but Obi, she saw a threat.

If anyone else entered her room, even Anakin, her heartrate would skyrocket and she would cower against the sheets. Her face would widen in terror. Obi didn't want to resort to more drug use, but his will was withering. Seeing her this way was almost too much to bear.

Dark shadows began to spread under her eyes, a deep purple bruise. Her skin was the same sickly, pallid shade. She would eat a few bites, but only if Obi-wan encouraged her. He practically lived in her room, refusing to leave at nights.

Graciously, they provided a spare mattress and a few blankets for him to sleep on so he could be there whenever she thrashed and wailed in the early hours, a nightmare plaguing her. He was used to midnight alarms—he was a general, after all, but it also did not mean that it was easy.

He did his best to calm her mind with his Jedi abilities, to extract the pain there, but there was only so much even he could do.

Patiently, he would gently hold her down as she writhed and sobbed. He spoke soothing words, hummed lullabies, and tried to keep himself calm when it felt like his heart was snapping.

When his presence entered her panicked head, he saw glimpses of the horrific images, and it always centered on the same thing, the same person: Maul.

Like a tormenting reaper, the Sith's shadow loomed over her, pressing down on her with his red, double-bladed scythe. He chased her through never ending hallways, and always caught her. His arms were like the coils of a viper, strangling her. His touch was like burning iron searing into her flesh.

As she struggled to break free, he laughed—a terrible, rasping thing. The nightmare usually ended with his talons around her neck.

The Dathomirian had made good on his promises—his influence was like poison. It still coursed through Satine, rotting her strength, her spirit.

To be away from her in a time like this sent shockwaves of guilt through Obi-wan. She was alone. There was nothing left for her. Soon, he would be sent back to war, and where would she go? How would she survive?

Now he was running, dashing around corners, leaping through portals. He had left her alone for a _day_ , a blasted day! She probably hadn't slept a wink, hadn't eaten a morsel. He cursed out Anakin again in his head—it was his fault that she suffered now.

Obi-wan didn't have time to care about himself, his body, and needs. Not when Satine was falling apart before his very eyes. Finally, he made it to the familiar entryway and entered before the panels had completely opened.

Instantly, he heard her gasp.

"Obi!"

At his appearance, her bleak, drawn face perked up. It tore him apart.

In a flash, he was at her side, holding her frail hand. It hadn't been as bad as he had expected. She had been sitting up, reading. A steaming cup of tea sat on the tray next to her.

Her hair was back, pulled into a sloppy ponytail. Tendrils of her dandelion locks fell on either side of her gaunt, black-streaked face, tickling against her sore neck. The hospital gown was loose on her, and the collar sank down just past her clavicle. He saw the bones jut out, ridges.

Nevertheless, she smiled at him, sparkles amidst black stripes. Her grip on him was firm, their fingers intertwined again.

"How have you been?" he asked eagerly, his eyes searching hers. "Have you eaten? Does anything hurt? When was the last time you slept?"

She only laughed, though it was weak.

"You worry too much," she said hoarsely, patting his hand as if she was the one comforting him instead of the other way around. "I'm fine."

"Satine…"

The grin on her face faltered a notch.

"Really," she said persistently, but he could sense the lie. "Everything's fine."

Although she appeared more buoyant, there were still twilight bags under her eyes. He was impressed that she had managed to call for tea and find a book, but he wondered if that was more of a testament to the kindness of the staff than anything else. There were no crumbs or signs she had eaten anything since he last saw her.

He sighed and let it go. At least there were some positive signs—she survived the night.

"How are your dreams?" he questioned next, scanning her reaction.

It was a touchy subject, but he had to know. If they were getting worse…he didn't know what to do. Things of this nature were tricky and incredibly dangerous, slippery slopes ending in disaster. He had seen enough traumatized clones to know.

She cringed at his inquiry, but held firm. She didn't turn away or slip her hand from his like she usually did whenever he asked. A flash of fear glittered in her eyes, but she tried to swallow it.

It made him hopeful. If she could sleep better, peacefully, it would do wonders for her recovery.

"Better," she replied with a wince, and he knew she was lying again.

The ember of optimism cooled. He squeezed her hand.

"Do you want me to take look?" he offered, seeing the way she was beginning to recede into herself.

She flinched again, and her fingers curled even tighter around his, as if she was trying to hold onto reality. With a sense of guilt, she nodded.

"Alright then," he said softly. "Try to relax."

He closed his eyes, concentrating. He was naturally adept at telepathy, but there seemed to be guards around her brain. She was not weak-willed, and her fear was a constant shield. He hadn't realized the extent of Maul's influence until he breached through her defenses.

The Sith's lingering power still held sway over her. It stuck to her mind like thorns, and when Obi-wan tried to remove one, it hurt her. This was a task above his experience, but Anakin and Ahsoka had not learned enough of the Force to help him.

Plus, he was the only one the Duchess seemed to trust. If she became more afraid, it only made things more difficult.

Each day, he managed to yank one of the bristles out, but anything beyond that would be too much. The mind was delicate and it could easily shatter.

As he connected further with the Force, almost hovering outside himself, he entered into her guarded head. The shadows were as thick as blood, but he tried to use his influence to lighten them. It was similar to chopping through jungles with a machete.

But soon enough he found what he was looking for. It was a great source of her fear. A bleak storm cloud, filled with screams and dark memories that emanated from it. As he grew closer, his presence fighting against the Sith's, he could tell it was affecting her physically.

Distantly, he could feel her shaking, the bedframes rattling.

This was both a warning and an encouraging sign. If he was successful in ripping this venomous barb out, it may just allow her to have a good night's sleep this evening. So, with a new sense of urgency he let his presence surround the suffocating fog.

The light of his power burned through the smog, and it recoiled—as cowardly as its master. The dawn of the Light Side shimmered through the Dark, but it was like mopping up an oil spill. The darkness was sticky and seeped into every pore.

As if a thousand miles away, Satine was panting, breathing heavily, her grip on him was white-knuckled. She was whimpering, asking for him to stop, but the process had already begun. He couldn't break concentration.

The more he delved into her mind, the more it revealed.

In flashes, he saw the torment she had undergone, what Maul had done to her while Obi-wan was incapacitated.

He witnessed as she was beaten, as she was paraded around and humiliated, as she began to wither under the Sith until she was trampled underneath. Obi-wan saw, through her eyes, the suffering of her month-long brush with Maul.

Steadily, the oozing mists evaporated, overwhelmed by radiance. With a sense of profound relief, he yanked the thorn out and destroyed it. Then, he returned to himself.

He was sitting, cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, one of his hands held up because she refused to let go. When his leathery eye lids flickered open, he exhaled, emptying himself. Another job completed and only a hundred more to go.

His tired gaze went to Satine. A trail of sweat ran down her pulsing temples. Her delicate jaw was clenched, and her features were squeezed, scrunched. Her hand shook as she clutched him, and he rose to a crouched position and began rubbing his thumb over her bleached knuckles.

The quarrel of Light and Dark continued in her mind, but it was better than before. With effort, she slowed her breath and lifted her veined, gossamer lids. Her irises were clouded, but clearing as she relaxed.

Whenever Obi-wan attempted to clear her head of Maul, it felt like pulling rotting teeth, draining abscesses. But it was worth it. In the moment, it was unbearable, but there would soon be a palpable relief, as if she was slowly recovering pieces of herself.

"Better?" he questioned gently.

His sweet breath caressed her skin and she shuddered at its light, crisp touch. She breathed deep and smelled a bonfire—his usual scent. She could practically hear the crackling of rich wood and taste the summer air.

Thinking she was cold, he tugged the covers up. She hummed lightly as he tucked her in.

"Yes," she sighed as she settled into the pillows. "Much. Thank you."

Pleased, he noticed that a bit of the permanent pinch on her features lessened. Her shoulders drooped and she gazed at him from behind sleepy lashes. His hope returned before he could stop it. Surely she would get at least a few solid hours tonight.

As her chin bowed into her chest like a curling cat, a knock rapped lightly at the door, but he did not plan on answering it—not when she was so close to slumber. As if nothing had happened, he kept stroking her knuckles rhythmically. A familiar presence was behind the door, and he assumed it was Anakin.

She did not seem to notice the noise and succumbed further into peace.

His hunch was right. The door whisked open and Anakin stepped quietly through. Obi-wan did not turn around, he kept his entire attention on her, watching as she fell asleep. Her grip slackened and her breath became even.

Anakin said nothing, but he had an air of impatience. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, Obi-wan jerked his whiskered chin—motioning for the young Jedi to join him outside.

With precise, ghost-like movements, he managed to pry her fingers from his without her notice. Then, he stood and briskly strode toward the panels, hoping this wouldn't take long. Anakin followed him just as silently as Satine slept on.

The portal snapped shut behind them as they entered the hall.

Ahsoka was nowhere in sight—a premonition.

"Where's your Padawan?" Obi-wan asked, sensing agitation in his former pupil.

It was clear Anakin was a bearer of bad news. It was written all over his face. He stared at the Knight with hollowed eyes, his features grim and strained. Kenobi could see him chomping on his teeth, the muscles in his clenched jaw flexing.

"She's getting the ship ready," he replied and Obi-wan narrowed his sky-blue eyes into slits.

"Are you two going somewhere?" he questioned out of propriety more than anything.

He knew the answer before Anakin barked it out.

"Yes," he said, his shoulders upright, hunched into his tense neck. "The Council has ordered us, _all_ of us, back to Coruscant."

Obi-wan shook his head.

"I can't leave yet. Satine—"

"They want to see her, too," the young Jedi interrupted, speaking rapidly—in one breath.

As he said it, the strain in his body lessened. This had been the brunt of the bad news, evidently.

It certainly did its job. The air seemed to leave Obi-wan's lungs, a hit to the stomach. He almost reached out to the wall to keep himself upright.

"That's…that's not possible," he denied as a strand of dirty-blonde hair crept into his eyes. "She can barely eat, let alone travel twenty parsecs. It would kill her, Anakin!"

But the boy already knew that. He peered at Obi-wan beseechingly, all past animosity from their last conversation gone.

"I tried to explain that," Skywalker defended feebly. "I told them about her…condition. I said she needed at least another week, but they wouldn't have any of it. The war is going badly and they're desperate, Master."

By the end of the speech, Obi-wan was beginning to pace, fingers in his beard, brow furrowed. He searched for a way out, but found none. They wouldn't even give them a week?

"When did this happen?" he asked hollowly, a great weakness drilling through him.

"Just this morning," Anakin explained and added hastily: "Before you woke up."

The paling Knight blew out a breath and ruffled his sun-kissed hair.

"I should speak with them," he said, although he didn't look like he wanted to do anything of the sort. "Maybe they'll listen to me."

He had already been away from Satine for too long. Negotiations with the Jedi Council could take hours, and his arguments would probably come to nil. She was safe for now, but what if she had a nightmare and he wasn't there? But if he disobeyed his superiors again, it could sideline him for the rest of the Clone Wars.

Of course, he knew he couldn't stay here forever, not when he and Anakin were needed so urgently on the field. The Republic had been more than understanding, he supposed. They could have dragged him kicking and screaming to the lines the minute his new arm had been attached.

His eyes flicked from the Duchess's door and then to the floor. He bit his bristled, honeyed-haired lip, unable to make a decision. He had a duty to the Republic, to the Jedi Order. He had made his vows, pledged his life to his Masters, but his heart said otherwise. It twisted like noose at the thought of abandoning Satine, leaving her again to pursue war.

He knew it was selfish, choosing her over responsibility, but he had been fighting to keep her alive for so long…

"I'll fly fast," Anakin asserted diplomatically as he watched Obi-wan fret. "If we leave now, I can get to Coruscant by tomorrow morning."

The thought of Satine, so broken and scarred, walking amidst the suffocating crowds of the Capital tore him to bits. She couldn't even look upon a droid without hyperventilating. What would happen when she was introduced back into society? Especially _that_ society.

 _Disaster, that's what,_ he mused miserably.

They would have to sneak her in, would have to keep her as protected as possible, away from watching eyes. A dozen schemes ran simultaneously through his mind as the walls closed in.

"I suppose I don't have much of a choice, do I?" the Knight relinquished with another sigh.

"Not really," the young Jedi responded with a light-hearted smirk.

Obi-wan chuckled colorlessly.

"I suppose I should be used to it by now."

The two exchanged a heavy, knowing look. No one knew suffering and misery better than Jedi.

* * *

"Do you feel well enough?"

The way he said it made the skin on Ahsoka's skin prickle. Obi-wan's voice was gentle and filled with unspoken adoration. It was like the Duchess was the only one in the room, the only person that mattered in the entire universe.

Even Satine seemed to notice it, and her face lit up in a smile.

The ship was ready. All that was left was breaking the news. The three Jedi stood in the Duchess's hospital room, waiting patiently as she swallowed the update. She had been bedridden for weeks, barely used her atrophying legs. Even though she was in safe hands, she was dwindling away to nothing.

Ahsoka couldn't seem to understand what the issue was. If anyone could help the Duchess it was the Council. But she was mistrustful—practically feral—of everyone not named Obi-wan Kenobi.

"I think so," the frail woman responded after a few moments, her voice scratched, thin. "Coruscant is always…entertaining."

Ahsoka wanted to snort.

 _That's one way to put it…_

"But what exactly does the Council want with me?" Satine continued, her crystal eyes shining behind the black.

There was a hitch of fear in her voice. The childlike innocence in it sapped the room of its tension. Instantly, Obi-wan was kneeling next to her, taking her hand in his gloved one. Anakin's typical glower was wiped from his expression, replaced by a mix of pity and compassion, although he remained closed off, guarded.

Ahsoka couldn't believe what she was seeing, and she raised an intrigued brow. Was this really Master Kenobi? He was so attentive. He had always been the sensible, calm one, but that was a long way from what the Padawan was witnessing here.

She had noticed it during the escape, but she thought that was just because he was delusional from having his arm sliced off, the fever getting to his head. But, as the Padawan fit the pieces together—how he had screamed when the Sith got away, the way he looked at the Duchess, the distance he went to save her—she grew more worried.

He was completely engrossed, enthralled by Satine, beyond simple charitable concern. It was if her pain, her fear, was his. It was a two-way street. In his presence, at his touch, the Duchess was soothed visibly. The terror on her petite, marred face eased, and she sighed in relief.

 _This is gonna be a problem,_ Ahsoka thought and she kicked herself for having not noticed before.

It was so obvious!

She may have been young, but even she knew what true love looked like, especially when it was on display for the world to see. Had the rules changed, or wasn't it still against the Jedi Law to become attached like this?

Incredulous, she glanced at her Master, trying to will him to look at her. But he was staring at his toes, deliberately avoiding all eye contact, all attention. It looked like he wanted to sink through the floor, wanted to disappear.

 _You can't just turn a blind eye to this!_ she wanted to scream at him. _He could get kicked out of the Order!_

"Never fear, my dear," Obi-wan was saying quietly, sympathetically to Satine. "I'm sure they just want to ask you a few questions. Nothing serious."

Ahsoka flicked her thickly-lashed, baby blues to Obi-wan's back, glaring. She had been in Satine's position before, and she knew that the Jedi Council would want more than just a _few_ answers from the Duchess. It was Windu and company they were talking about here! It would be a downright interrogation.

 _There's a frikkin' SITH involved! Isn't that a big deal or did I miss a memo?_

Placated, Satine nodded, gripping Kenobi's hand tightly. The tenderness shared between the two of them made the Padawan feel queasy, but Anakin still refused to interfere.

Ahsoka hated being the rational one, hated that her Masters had put her in this position. She wanted to spare the Duchess as much as possible from stress—she didn't need any more of _that_ in her life—but she also knew that if Obi-wan couldn't get it together, or at least _hide_ his obvious attachment, this meeting would become a trial.

But what could she do? Her Master didn't seem to care, and Kenobi was in too deep. Did he know what the consequences would be if he didn't renounce his feelings for the Duchess? He would be banished, and the Republic might lose the war because of it.

In a haze of righteous anger, Ahsoka followed Anakin out as they went back to the ship, waiting there while Satine packed.

She had nothing left to her name at all, but a few of the female members on board had leant her anything they could spare, anything that could fit.

This left her with one gray-blue skirt—the color of a spring fog—and a billowing, lilac blouse. All in all, she was hilariously pleased with the turn out. It had been ages since she had worn anything but black…

She stopped the thought in its tracks. The deep fog of her bleak memories began to sprout eagerly, wanting to encase her mind in its barbwire grip. Closing her eyes, she pushed it down, but it was like stamping out a persistent fire.

 _Don't think about it. Don't think about it._

Obi had left to give her privacy, promising to return quickly, though it felt like too long.

The fact that she needed someone to hold her hand at all times began to disgust her. She was a grown woman!

Nevertheless, as she dressed, she was reminded of changing in the dark as Maul stood behind the door, waiting. Again, she shook away the memory, taking deep breaths as she stripped. They came out in wheezes.

She tried not to notice the countable ribs, or the sickly tones of her skin. The clothes were comfortable, perhaps a bit too big, but the bright color of the loose tunic made her feel a bit like herself again.

Then, she made the mistake of peering at the mirror hanging over the sink.

The temporary contentment that had seemed too good to be true wilted when she saw the marks. The sight of them held her gaze, locking her, trapping her. It had been the first time she had seen them since her escape. She had made a point of avoiding her reflection for this very reason.

Then, her horrified face was replaced with Maul's. His murderous grin intact as he glared at her ravenously.

 _You'll always have me…_ his raspy voice echoed in her mind.

It sounded so real. She spun around, expecting to see him standing behind her, reaching for her, his arms like prison bars.

He was nowhere to be seen, but she still heard him.

 _Run, little girl, run! You won't escape me._

Her breaths became gasps, she threw herself down, putting her head in her arms, cradling it—caged animal. His face was imprinted on her eyelids. Those hideous yellow eyes, surrounded in a sea of red…

Knocks pounded at the door. Obi-wan's worried yells were drowned out by laughter—Maul's voice crackled, long and cruel. Its tone was grated, barely above a hiss.

 _Did you really think I wouldn't find you? I'm always with you, Satine._

"No…no!" she whimpered at the rug. "It's impossible! You're dead!"

Even without his physical form, she could tell he was grinning, pleased. The thought of his gaze on her, roaming, piercing, ripping her skin off, naked in the dark—her stomach lurched.

 _Insolent girl, I can never die._

"You're wrong," she croaked, her flesh as cold as ice. "You're not real…you can't be!"

"Satine! Satine! Open the door!"

 _Ah, reunited at last, I see,_ the Sith snarled.

The churn of her guts was beating against her chest, attempting to break through her ribs. She had to get out of here.

He laughed again. Her cries came out in frightened, bubbled chokes, but she couldn't move. That same terrible unseen hand clamped down upon her, holding her in an iron grasp. All she could do was weep, pathetic.

His cackle drowned out everything else.

"SATINE!"

And then the door panels were lying next to her on the floor, smoking. Distantly, she smelled the smoke, but hardly noticed anything else, as if ripped from her body. Maul's voice engulfed her.

 _I'll find you, Satine. I'll take him, everything, from you. I'll force you to watch as I rip him limb from limb. As he cries for you, I'll cut out his tongue. When tears fall down his face, I'll gouge out his eyes. And with his dying breath, I'll tear his lungs from his chest._

"No…no…no…" she rocked on her heels, unable to feel that Obi-wan had his arms around her, his bristled cheek grazing her head.

 _Yes! Don't you know that even without the scars you're still MINE!_

The power laced in those words sent an uncontrollable shiver throughout her entire being. She retched, and a flood of bile sprung from her throat and pooled on the floor, splashing on the Jedi's boots and pants.

 _Having morning sickness are we?_ the voice hooted.

With that, she fainted.


	32. Darth

_Two weeks earlier._

Again he found himself in darkness. It was familiar, the agony. He did not believe the suffering he had endured after being chopped in half could be replicated. Yet here was, clinging to life like an animal once more.

Although the anguish tempted him to break down, to cry and weep, he remembered his training. His Master had taught him well. Unlike the weak Jedi, his time as an apprentice was not filled with friendship and trust. It was the opposite.

The Sith did not breed like rabbits, as the Jedi did, they endured like mountains—silent volcanoes that churned beneath the surface. They huddled and scuttled in the dark, amassing power, waiting and watching until they struck.

The Rule of Two hung above him as he learned. If he fell, if he faltered, he would be eradicated and another would take his place. Pain was therefore a prominent feature in his training. If he could not take the worst, he would not be the best.

In fact, he could not recall if Sidious had ever let him go to bed unscathed. He remembered a permanent ache, wincing in the dark as he tried to sleep. His crimson and black skin covered in bruises, scratches.

His Lord's favorite tool of teaching was his lightning. Anytime the young Dathomirian boy failed—whether it be in sparring or connecting to the Dark Side of the Force—he would receive the Sith equivalent to a slap on the wrist. Sidious would extend his spiderlike fingers and the rest became an excruciating blur.

He still could taste the electricity as it shuddered through his bones, static shocks in his mouth. He could still smell the scent of his own flesh as it charred. All the while his Master would taunt him, saying if he wanted the pain to stop, Maul should have done better, be better. Which equated to never showing weakness, even when he was set on fire.

It was not unlike what he underwent now. The same fragrance of his seared skin wafted around him like burned, rotten meat.

Nevertheless, he did what he had been taught to do: survive. Although the pain was inescapable, his reaction to it was limitless. He found that withdrawing into the mind was the best solution, although it came with the side effect of insanity if he remained too long.

So, as his brother searched for a way to repair him, he delved into the depths of his black soul. The Jedi meditated for tranquility, the Sith meditated for strength. His will became iron, and the heat rolling off him in anguished waves became less important. It was there, but he would not be broken by it.

He was invincible.

Savage did not know where to go. Aimlessly he flew throughout the emptiness of space. Dathomir was no longer his home. The only one who knew of his plight was Mother Talzin, and yet he sensed that she was far away—gone.

His brother lay dying, strewn once again to smithereens. Maul was alarmingly quiet as he sat behind Savage, slumped over. The small fighter was not large enough for him to lie down in.

His breath was short, practically nonexistent.

Snorting in fury, Savage regretted his decision of leaving the Jedi alive. He should have killed him while he had the chance. His brother was dying anyway. He could have at least made his Master proud one last time.

Mandalore was behind them, and yet it seemed to be the only place left for him to go, to return to.

If he saw the Jedi again, so much the better—he was now eager to exact a merciless revenge. He had not managed to travel very far, so it took him little time to backtrack. The blue planet was within his sights in minutes. Breaking through the atmosphere, he careened across the white, barren landscapes and re-entered the domed city once more.

The smoke pillars left from his firefight with the Jedi's rescuers still rose into the night sky—streaks of burning gray against the inky backdrop. He recognized the familiar terrace of the palace and made his way to it.

As he grew closer, he searched attentively for Kenobi. The man had been screeching tediously when Savage left, kneeling at the edge of the organic plateau as he sobbed. It still struck the fledgling Sith as odd that the Jedi had been so affected by the Duchess.

She was just a girl. If it was women Kenobi wanted, why couldn't he just take his pick? Did it matter what a plaything looked like? The turmoil Savage sensed within his enemy was baffling. The solution was clear. If he wanted the Duchess, he should have just taken her.

Simple as that.

Then again, keeping the woman imprisoned did make for good torture, but after a while Savage wondered if it was worth the hassle. She was always crying.

If Kenobi had challenged him to a duel, minus the emotional nonsense, for the Duchess's life the first day of his capture, maybe none of this would have happened. Savage could have killed the Jedi, his brother could decide whether he wanted the girl as a pet, and they would still be ruling over Mandalore.

If only Maul had stopped toying with his prey.

The younger Dathomirian shook his head. What did he know? He was just an apprentice.

 _An unworthy one,_ he added to himself.

As the fighter settled, the engines cooling, Savage peered behind him at his mangled brother. He did not feel sentimentality, but only a pervading dishonor. The Nightsisters had chosen him for this role and had given him this power, but he still did not believe he was a Sith.

He had no urge to rule the galaxy, had no incentive to get involved in the tedious politics. He did as Maul commanded, but he had no feeling one way or the other about his role. He was a gun, a weapon. His entire purpose in this life was to be pointed and shot. He only felt like himself when he was ripping off heads or watching the light leave someone's eyes.

 _I'm not like you brother,_ he thought with sudden clarity. _I never was._

As the ship jolted to a stop, he took a cursory glance at his surroundings. There was no one. Even the defeated Death Watch soldiers had disappeared. All that remained were the after effects of a battle—burn marks and holes in the ground.

The dented tie fighter landed as smoothly as it could, but each bump seemed to be torture for Maul, who began to groan. The hatch opened with a hiss, and Savage made a move to pick his brother up again. The hospital facilities were still there no doubt, though he didn't know if any doctors remained or if everyone had run off.

Reaching into the backseat, he unbuckled Maul and picked him up as gently as possible. The moans of pain became snarls. He jumped out, landing expertly on his toes, and began walking steadily toward the crumbling entryway. No doubt the palace was in shambles, with glass and rock and metal everywhere.

However, as he approached the darkened hole, a sharp sensation shot through his brain. At first he thought he had been grazed by a blaster and he whisked around, searching for an assassin. Only shadows and wind greeted him.

The feeling jolted through him again, and he began to understand that it was a reverberation in the Force—a massive, looming presence that was familiar and yet incredibly dangerous. His lightsaber was at his belt, but he didn't want to drop his armless brother to retrieve it. He started running, nostrils flaring. There was a primal instinct screaming at him to hide.

The tremor began to weasel its way into his mind and body, growing closer.

It was then he realized that the captured soldiers had not run away. They lay, as if sleeping, next to the gate, against the walls and slumped on one another. Their blasters were in their hands, unused. Savage stopped cold in his tracks.

It was clear the threat was somewhere close. He sensed it waiting for him.

A spine-shivering laugh began to echo all around him.

Maul's eyes snapped open.

"Master?" he whispered, dark blood streaked across his lips.

His yellow stare was far away, but it nonetheless perceived the situation with a mystifying clarity.

"Brother, what is it?" Savage hissed, completely astonished that his brother had awakened.

But the Master did not hear his Apprentice. He was listening to the dry, throaty cackle, completely enthralled.

"So this is what has become of Darth Maul."

An eerie squawk of a voice came from behind. Savage swung around. His dark eyes narrowed and his mouth in a sneer.

A small, cloaked figure stood just a few yards away. His arms crossed into his dark sleeves as he was haloed by the moonlight.

Although a hood covered his face, the young Sith could sense the man's penetrating stare locked on him and his brother.

"Who are you?" Savage snarled, his first impression deceiving his instincts. "Show yourself!"

The man did not move, but the ripple in the Force became a wave of rage. Immediately, Savage knew he was outmatched. The power was overwhelming, an infinite hate.

The figure opened his arms as if inviting a hug.

"Run," Maul whispered below, spittle flying.

But it was too late.

Wrenched apart, Savage went flying backward. As he soared through the air, his throat collapsed in on itself. Crushed against the wall, he levitated above the bodies of the Death Watch, his massive boots kicking against nothing as he struggled for life.

Maul hit the ground with a heavy thump. He was not one to scream or cry, but he did emit a wrenching cough. Blood began leaking from his mouth once more, re-watering the dried brown trails that stained his neck. The concentration it took to keep himself from the ghastly pain was breaking.

Sickened, he lay still as he sensed his brother dying.

Savage choked, gurgled, whimpered, and then went silent. His body plummeted to the earth, hitting it with such force that the darkened rock cracked. As death took him, green mist secreted from his brown and black skin and began evaporating into the air. It sparkled with dark magic, twinkling in the night as it vanished.

"Brother…" Maul hissed through his teeth.

Darth Sidious walked calmly up to the deformed figure of his former apprentice, unaffected by his kill. His murky imperial robes trailed behind him like snake. With a pitiless, hidden stare he observed Maul, who peered weakly up at him.

"I am most impressed to see you have survived your injures," Sidious observed coolly. "Yet it remains to be seen if you will endure _these_ ones."

Although he was on the verge of death, he could not appear so weak in front of his Master. Distancing himself from his pain once more, he managed to gulp in a gasp of air.

"I followed yo—" another sharp exhale. "Your training, M-master."

Sidious hummed a grisly chuckle. His voice was like a frog's.

"How unfortunate that you are no longer my apprentice," he informed mercilessly, reveling in the pain.

Even in his state, Maul felt a shudder of fury bubble in his blood. That spot was his! It had always been his. He had been groomed, bred, for such an honor. His entire life had been spent training for it. No one could take it away from him! He had suffered and survived too much.

Sidious sensed his wrath and grinned beneath the cover of the cowl.

"You have been replaced."

His Master might as well have unsheathed his lightsaber. The words were an obvious death warrant. But Maul had begged enough that day. There was little left for him to barter. The empire he had worked so tirelessly to build had crumbled into dust. His apprentice was slain, the body decomposing beside him. He himself was a sack of meat before the feet of his former Lord—a torso and nothing more.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked in a hiss that ended in a burst of blood exploding from his gullet.

"No," Sidious said venomously, to which the Dathomirian's glassy eyes widened in disbelief. "I have other uses for you."


	33. Mask

Satine had not awakened.

After leaving her to dress, it was only minutes before he sensed a tremble in the Force. It made his blood run cold and prickled his flesh in goose bumps—the Dark Side. Instantly he knew it was Satine.

He had been pacing in the waiting room, but was soon speeding down the hallways, pushing over anyone in his path.

Behind her hospital door, he heard her speaking with someone. There had been no one in the room when he left and the panels were locked. The foreboding presence emanated from behind the metal frames, thick shadows seeping through the cracks. Obi-wan had never seen the Dark Side so manifested.

Satine began to weep, to cry. The freezing sensation aside, Kenobi knocked down the portal with a burst of his power. The mists of darkness recoiled at his presence, but she remained fixed on the ground, curled into a ball, rocking on her feet as sparks cascaded.

He had wrapped his arms around her, but it was if she could not feel him. She did not hear him when he spoke softly in her ear. Silent tears streamed down her etched face. Her sapphire eyes were glossed over, engrossed by an unseen presence.

There was faint, foul whispering on the air, in the Force. He could not make out the words. It sounded like the hisses of a viper and filled him with dread.

Whatever food she had in her stomach was soon the floor. Her lips quivered as if they wanted to speak, to scream, but were sewn shut. Obi-wan heard a whispering laugh, a discreet cackle reverberate.

Then, she fainted without a noise.

He caught her as she collapsed. He checked her pulse, it was weak. Her face was a flower closed in on itself, hibernating for winter—knocked out cold. He brushed her tangled, blonde locks from her sticky, sweaty forehead.

"What are we going to do?"

* * *

In an effort to protect her mind, Satine's body had pulled the plug. The overbearing threat of Maul coupled with the lack of food and sleep had been too much for her fragile state.

Nevertheless, she was growing tired of swooning—it made her feel positively pathetic.

The Sith had taken much—if not everything—from her, but there was still an ember of self-respect somewhere hidden within. She had been close to re-discovering it, but it all went to rot as soon as she heard his voice.

It was if she had been a droid all along and Maul had been toying with her switches, rewiring her. At his command, she would shut down, crumple into a shell of circuits—helpless, useless.

It wasn't like she wasn't used to this position.

In her familiar unconscious situation, she did not notice as Obi-wan carried her, sprinting headlong back to the ship with an army of angry 2-1B droids trailing him. Like a proper damsel, her legs swung weakly as her head lolled backward in his arms, hair tumbling.

Nor did she stir when he placed her on the tattered, pull-out bed that she had grown accustomed to on the way to the hospital. Except this time, she went in and out of semi-awareness. From faraway, dazed, she noted the touch of rough linen against her fingers, the smell of sweat and blood saturate the air, the distant sound of engines igniting.

Then, voices.

"…Kenobi…you must…Council…banished!"

She recognized the light, squeaky tone but it was like trying to hear through water. It was muffled, jumping in and out of comprehension. She struggled to stay partially awake, but the dizzying darkness pulled her back and forth like harsh tides.

"...don't understand…promise…Satine needs…"

This one was strained, hurt. Instinctively, she longed to comfort its owner.

"…out of my…nothing…Republic…loyalty?"

The retort was strict, harsh, but equally concerned. After it spoke, a buzz of words exploded, too fast and impassioned for her to catch.

It was clear there was a fight going on above her, and she was the subject of it. In vain, she attempted to wake up, coerce her body to sit up. Trapped, she could barely manage a twitch of her toes. The action was enough to sap her. As the hisses of angry whispers hummed miles away, she fell back into black.

As she succumbed to dark tides, she thought she heard:

"I will try."

* * *

She awoke with a start.

Bolting upright, she was no longer in the cabin of the cramped ship. Moving too quickly, her head pounded as she sat up, swathed in sheets. Stars flickered across her sight, so she lowered herself back down onto the comfortable, opulent bed.

Someone had tucked her in. Even though she knew she was safe, the thought of being so powerless—even when a person only meant well—alarmed her.

Instinctively, she grasped the plush, white comforter tightly and crept back under the covers.

She was in a large, ellipse-shaped room. Velvet curtains, lush and long, swept across one wall. Light peeked out from underneath, hiding a balcony. A round glass table sat in the middle of the space, a couple yards from the foot of the bedframe, and was already adorned with wildflowers and a tantalizing water jug.

There were panels past the table, and she guessed it was an entrance to a washroom. The metal walls were painted a soft navy, which eased her headache. The bed itself was also curved, a perfect circle.

Recognizing the style, she chuckled weakly to herself. The capital was obsessed with circles.

"I must be on Coruscant," she sighed, trying to remember how she got here.

She knew she had fainted, and she knew why, but she refused to let the memory overwhelm her. Maul's echoing cackle whispered in the back of her head, but she pushed it down. She could not swoon again.

The Jedi had told—commanded—that she come to the Council at the Jedi Temple, and she was sure if she looked out the window she would see the massive building. She had always thought it looked out of place in the modern galaxy, an ancient relic. With obelisks that rivaled the skies, it resembled a pyramid without a roof.

Nevertheless, its very presence spoke of unseen power, foreboding and yet inescapable—much like the Force itself, from what she gathered.

It hit her suddenly that she would be there very soon.

A flutter of apprehension bubbled in her gut. It wasn't that the temple was frightening, but that it was intimidating. The Jedi who dwelled inside were not much better. There was a certain anxiety about meeting a Force-wielder for the first time that she had yet to get over.

It had always struck her as odd imagining Obi there. Around her, he was usually a mix of frustrated and amused—intense but lively.

 _And annoying…_ she added with a smile.

Whereas, when he spoke of the temple, of the Council, he had such a sober expression. He became older, wiser, and far more stoic. Yet it seemed to her that it was a mask—a good one, but a semblance nonetheless.

The thought of it saddened her, and yet she could not change who he was, who they both were.

Her blood had calmed, and she was eager to stand, to walk. Her body was stiff and sore from sleeping so long. She didn't even want to think about just exactly how much time that was.

Methodically, she unraveled from the sheets and sat upon the edge of the infuriatingly circular bed. As she looked down, she noticed that her clothes had not changed, and she exhaled in complete relief.

Being tucked in while unconscious was one thing, but being undressed was a whole other beast entirely.

Distantly, she noted the splotches of stains where she had vomited all over her skirts, but she would not let the sight disturb her into another embarrassing faint.

With a groan, she stumbled to her feet, stretched, and yawned. Even though she had been out cold for who knew how long, there was still a weariness hanging over her. She didn't know if she could ever sleep it away.

Nevertheless, she also was eager to prove herself. She had been a prisoner, a captive, for what seemed like a lifetime. The fact that she was free to do whatever she wished was thrilling. Just the very act of thinking what she wanted to think made the corners of her lips tug upward.

A strip of light glimmered in her peripheral as she strode cautiously about the room.

Curious, she glided over to the audacious curtain, intrigued by what it hid.

With a gentle tug on the rope, it floated open into a sizable slit. She poked her tangled, blonde head through it and peered suspiciously outside. Her gut was right. It was a balcony. Even better, the Jedi Temple stood proudly on the horizon, directly in front of her.

There were no seats on the terrace—which was a pity, for she loved to watch the sunset and rise—but it was small and elegant, with rounded rails that glimmered in the early dawn.

The sun, Coruscant prime, glimmered like white beacon against a red backdrop. The more it rose in the burgundy sky, the more her eyes began to hurt just looking at its rays.

The harshness of it made her retreat back into her shadowed room. The carpet was heavenly on her callused feet as she floated toward the sparkling glass table. Mouth dry, she poured herself a full cup of water and downed it in one sitting. She filled it again and repeated the process—she could never get enough.

Soon, the jug was empty, so she decided to take a seat on one of the thin, cushioned chairs. Unsure what to do or where her friends were, she placed her hands in her lap and waited restlessly. Memories began to take a spotlight in her thoughts after a moment, so she shot up out of her seat and started pacing edgily around the room.

It was early in the morning, and she worried if she would have to wait for hours before someone came and told her what was happening. Even with her freedom restored, she still felt caged as she took turn after turn around the space. Would she remain in here all day? Should she tell someone she was awake?

Eventually, she could sense the aura of sleepiness beginning to crack, the day was starting. So she decided to wait a few more minutes before she left to find an answer. Fidgeting, biting her repaired nails, she pondered what awaited her.

* * *

About a half-hour later, a bundle of servants had swarmed in, preparing her for the day. She immediately asked them if they knew anything about where she was and who she was meeting, but they only replied shortly. She was in the Senate Building, she was safe, they had been ordered to prepare her and nothing more.

It was maddening, but she didn't seem to have a choice. They probably knew as much as her.

It was unnerving, being so pampered, when she had been considered less than trash in recent memory—a chess piece or a plaything. Now, she had people _serving_ her. She almost half expected Maul to come bursting through the doors, laughing as he fooled her yet again.

As she was readied, it was becoming increasingly difficult to suppress her trauma when strangers tugged at her hair or painted her etched face. The scars no longer hurt, but just the sensation of fingers poking and prodding the marks of the Sith made her blood rush and her palms sweat. It felt too similar to Maul's touch.

At first, she had been very tempted to leap off the balcony. She wondered if she would ever get used to the feeling of being treated like royalty again. Although she was sure the news of Mandalore's downfall was old by now, everyone still called her Duchess. It was both amusing and infuriating at the same time, but she didn't have the heart to correct them.

What else would they call her? The ex-Duchess of Mandalore? The spoil of Darth Maul? The poor, swooning woman?

Even Satine seemed tainted. Maul had used it with such disgust so many times, she couldn't hear it without hearing his ghastly voice.

So, she attempted to separate herself from her body and mind. Although hard learned, it was a valuable lesson she learned from her time with the Sith. It was almost too easy to become detached and numb now as she went through the stages of cosmetics and dressing.

The servants barely spoke as they worked, but they did become perplexed when deliberating on what to do about her face. One of them opted for the Amidala alternative, which was to blanket it in several layers of thick, white paint, but it was shot down. Plagiarism was not taken lightly.

In the end, they did their best, muting the wretched black streaks but never ridding her of them. They became faint, obsidian veins. In dark enough light, they might even be undetectable.

It was an unfamiliar sensation, wearing makeup again. During her imprisonment, she only had it on when the Trade Federation had come—which was, thankfully, rarely. Now it felt heavy on her thin cheeks. Had it always taken so long to apply?

She blinked against the paints that they coated her eyelids with—a brilliant, albeit annoying, sapphire color. Knowing her style, they twisted her long, lank hair up into an elegantly disheveled knot and then curled it into one tail that ran down over her shoulder.

A wonderful breeze tickled the back of her neck, and she quietly thanked them for their practicality.

Then, they plucked a few thick strands of her hair out and framed her face with them as well as applied a light, silver-chain crown with a purple-colored stone attached. It hung gracefully in the middle of her forehead, reminding her of her favorite headpiece back home.

She pondered somberly if it had been destroyed by Maul.

The dress they chose matched the accessories and pallet. It was airy, with a fluttering, modest neckline and long, billowing sleeves. It had two sheer layers of violet and blue—her favorite colors—that played off one another when she moved.

It also had the bonus effect of hiding her unsettlingly pronounced bones in her wrists, ankles, and chest. She felt protected, hidden, under the loose, fluid dress.

Yet the best part of the entire ordeal was wearing shoes again. Blessedly, they didn't give her heels—which would surely have killed her to walk in after weeks of bare feet. Instead, she received comfortable, silver flats.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, they finished and whisked out of the room. A servant droid replaced them. It led her down the vacant hallways of the Senate Building, which the chancellor had apparently been gracious enough to let her stay, and then to the wide, open lobby, several floors down.

Massive windows flooded the atrium with an odd colored auburn light. Groups of people could be seen below as she descended in an elevator—most likely politicians or lobbyists of some form or another.

As she stepped off the platform, she immediately saw forms she recognized amongst the shadowed strangers: A crowned head with white and blue stripped tendrils against tangerine skin; a tall figure clothed in dark colors with a tangled mess of brown hair; and, finally, a brown-cloaked man with hair the color of rich, dark sand.

Even though the last one had his back turned to her, she knew that his eyes would shimmer like crystalline ponds against tan, leathery skin. Indeed, as the servant droid bowed and said goodbye, saying her name, the trio of people looked in her direction.

Obi-wan's eyes did sparkle, but they were cast in dark clouds. She could see he was still struggling with whatever had been bothering him.

"Duchess Satine!" Ahsoka squealed across the room, ignoring the guffaws of the surrounding legislators.

The girl came bounding over like a deer, dodging politicians. Satine smiled gracefully back—the youngling was quite a character.

"Padawan Tano," she greeted happily. "It's good to see you."

Ahsoka managed to stop just before she crashed into the woman, skidding deftly to a halt. Her excited eyes widened as she took the Duchess in.

"Wow!" she exclaimed, placing her hands on her hips. "You look great!"

Satine merely blushed.

"Alright, Snips, give her some space," Anakin chided lightly, smirking as he approached coolly with Obi-wan at his side.

The Knight was oddly silent. He wore his formal, brown Jedi cloak and his arms were folded into the loose sleeves. There was no smile on his face and his gaze seemed to peer past her, unseeing. The strained darkness that shadowed his eyes had not left.

She grinned at him, encouraging, but he didn't seem to notice or to care. The smile faded from her face, and she peered at him curiously.

He looked away from her perceiving stare, squinting to his right, head turned. The wall that had dissolved between them in the past weeks appeared to have been rebuilt overnight. His expression was back to its wartime mask—hardened nonchalance.

She didn't know what she expected by now. Of course he would be this way. It wasn't the first time he had become a stranger, had put up barricades. He was intent on keeping her out.

How foolish she had been to think that after all they had gone through, after how attentive he had been at the hospital, and how hard he fought to keep her alive…

Anakin gave a cough and Satine did her best not to flinch.

"Well, I suppose we'd better go," he said gruffly, eyeing Kenobi.

"Ah, yes," Satine replied, recovering, but her eyes were still locked on the Knight. "When do I meet the Council?"

For the first time since she had arrived, Obi-wan spoke—his words came out in a growl.

"Right now."

Then, he turned and began walking briskly away.

He did not look back.


	34. Ghosts

A few droids, quiet servants, and muttering legislators were one thing, but the streets of Coruscant were quite another. The sun was rising rapidly. Its white heat beat down on Satine as she walked hastily, drowning in the sea of citizens.

Ahsoka chattered next to her, obviously trying to distract her from the claustrophobia of the capital. The Padawan told her that they had tried to delay the meeting until nightfall, when the city was less crowded, but their requests were denied by the chancellor. Apparently, he had other plans for the Jedi that evening.

Satine nodded anxiously, trying to keep her gaze from flicking back and forth like a feral cat. The group was mostly inconspicuous, for the Jedi all had their hoods pulled over their faces, but every now and then someone they passed would double-take and murmur.

The Duchess wished sorely that she had her own cloak. Although the dress was lovely and breathable, it was nothing if not eye-catching. She thought she had been strong enough, that she could make amends for her pitiful swoon by putting on a brave face, but the confidence she had awoken with was quickly fading.

She began to crave the calming drugs that they gave her at the hospital. Breath hitched, she dug her nails into her palm.

The Temple still seemed so far away. The spires pierced the horizon, taunting her.

The faces that passed her by seemed harmless enough, but her paranoia would not be eased. Anytime she saw red and black, she would stiffen and her lungs would contract painfully. It took every inch of strength to keep from running, hiding.

Seeing her distress, the Jedi closed ranks, with Ahsoka on her left, holding her hand, Anakin on her right, and Obi-wan leading the way. It relieved a portion of her anxiety, but she still felt eyes boring into her, trying to see past the Jedi.

Obi hadn't looked back the entire time and she yearned for his steady, cocky demeanor. What had she done to deserve his cold shoulder?

"Shouldn't we be acquiring a taxi?" Satine squeaked, looking longingly toward the traffic-ridden sky where speeders and ships whooshed by.

Although their faces were masked in shadow, she could tell Ahsoka and Anakin shared a glance.

"Master Kenobi thought it would be best if we walked to the Temple," the Togruta girl explained excitedly, although her tone didn't fool the Duchess.

Satine's face paled considerably.

"And why is that?" she demanded.

"Well, er, he thinks that it would be, um, good for you to become 'reacquainted' with the world," the Padawan said, clearly uncomfortable, and then quickly added: "It's also such a nice day!"

"I see," the woman replied, glaring at Obi-wan's back.

She was starting to become supremely infuriated with him. The least he could have done was told her, prepared her. After all, she thought she had been quite patient—she had endured the surprise servants and the mystery of waking up in a strange place well enough. She hadn't put up a fight, she had waited for answers, and yet they still refused to let her in on the secrets.

Hadn't she been in the dark long enough? Wasn't this exactly what Maul had done? She never knew what was truly going on, never knew what suffering the Sith was causing or where Obi-wan was, or if she would live to see another day.

She wasn't a prisoner any longer. She deserved some answers to her questions, deserved to be informed.

Boiling in her frustration, she wanted to stomp away from all of this. To hell with the Council! She clenched her fists and sorely contemplated stepping on the back of Obi-wan's cloak, tripping him. The corners of her lips tugged upward deviously as she relished the thought of him flailing backward.

 _Serves him right,_ she grumbled in her head.

Suddenly, the Jedi turned a corner. The barricade they had built around her crumbled as masses of people and droids steamrolled over them like a hurricane. Ahsoka's firm grasp slipped away and Satine was taken by the currents. Petrified, she tried to struggle through the bodies, looking for her lost guides as she did so. All she could see were hundreds of strange faces.

Frantic, she managed to escape to the side, hugging the wall of a building.

Her heart throbbed in her ears as she leaned heavily against the metal. In the swarm, she couldn't see any of the Jedi, even Anakin's tall frame. Nauseous, she didn't know whether to search or to stay and wait. She scoured desperately for a familiar sight—Ahsoka's buoyant stride or Obi-wan's brown cloak, but there was nothing.

If they were calling for her, she couldn't hear them over the commuting roar.

A thousand different shapes and sizes of creatures paraded past her, unaffected by the hyperventilating woman in the pretty dress.

Her throat and lungs squeezed, she felt another faint coming on for certain. The heat of the day was suffocating. Cold sweat trickled down her back. Her flesh tingled and became clammy.

 _No. No. Stop. Don't you dare!_ she commanded herself, biting her cheek, glaring at nothing.

She forced herself to inhale and exhale, to breathe, to calm down. She closed her painted eyelids and blocked out the noise, the smothering smell of industry. There was no danger here. It was just a city, a busy city. No faceless Death Watch soldier awaited her, no Sith Lord hunted her, and she was just a bystander, another speck on the sidewalk.

The threatening vertigo began to ease. She opened her eyes hesitantly, but the Jedi were still nowhere to be seen or heard. Biting her nails, she didn't want to give up her good position, but she didn't want to remain stranded here for long. Danger was common in a place of this size, and she wasn't very inconspicuous.

Nevertheless, she decided to remain where she was. She didn't know the area well—no point in making a worse situation out of already bad one.

The Jedi would come eventually. They had to, right? She couldn't have been far from where they got separated.

Everywhere she looked appeared the same: Tall buildings interspersed with dingy diners and bars, a sea of bodies—vendors, beggars, clone troopers, and everyday citizens making the daily commute.

Her heart ached for Mandalore. The streets were more serene. The air was cleaner, the sky was pure, and she always felt confident, never burdened or afraid. The picture would be far different now—a war-torn world once more.

Yet even with all the business of Death Watch and civil war, it was still her home.

Just then, she thought she spotted the cloak of a Jedi, and moved to run it down. But, as she opened her mouth to call out to the hooded figure, it turned.

A blood-red face with lightning strikes of black and a hideous, grime-filled smile greeted her.

"It can't be…" she whispered, the blood turning to ice in her veins.

She looked wildly around. Did anyone else see? Did anyone else notice the Sith Lord in their presence?! No one did. They all carried along like there wasn't a psychopathic madman in their midst—a wolf amongst sheep.

His horrible stare, yellow and red, locked on her. He began to make a path in her direction, evading the throng of people like they didn't exist. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Her skin prickled and tingled with a rising dose of adrenaline.

The images of being strangled, of being beaten, scratched, kicked, kissed, tortured, were all she could think about. They swirled into an agonizing haze, bogging her down.

He was close now, crossing the street to where she stood, frozen. His black cloak billowed behind him and she thought she saw a flash of silver—a lightsaber.

The sight of it unhinged her. She ran.

Whisking around the corner of the wall, she fought against the tides of people, pushing them savagely out of the way. Some of them yelled at her but she didn't care. She couldn't hear them over the pounding of her heart.

She glanced over her shoulder and tripped. Her palms ripped open, but she pushed herself up and kept going. She didn't see him, but she wasn't taking any chances this time.

 _I won't be a prisoner again! I want to be free! I want to be free!_ she screamed in her mind.

She had no idea where to go, where to hide. Everywhere was a threat. Jumping behind another corner, she took a moment to catch her breath. She was in a vacant alleyway with trash littered all over. Compared to the exasperating brightness of the day, shadows loomed dark and heavy here.

Heaving chest, she gulped and peered cautiously around the bend, searching.

She couldn't see him anywhere in the blurring crowds and almost collapsed in relief.

 _"Hello Satine."_

She didn't have to look to know. The voice was immediately recognizable.

Maul.

She spun around, but there was nothing in the alley. A chill crept up her spin, her body became ice. The cold was unnatural. When she breathed, a mist of chill escaped her petrified lips.

 _"I found you,"_ he rasped. His voice echoed all around, just like at the hospital.

Her common sense screamed "Not real! Not real!" but the freezing aura was inescapable. She backed away, scrambling toward the bright light of day, the crowded streets.

Yet as she grew closer to the buzz of life, of people, she was stopped in her tracks—an invisible pressure locking her freezing joints. Shivering, lips turning blue, she saw him. Materializing out of the shadows of the alley, Maul glided forward.

His black cloak wavered as he walked. His hood was up but revealed enough of his face to show his bestial eyes. They were just the same as she remembered, murderous and volcanic. His black smile was back as he saw her terror. His looming darkness surged.

 _"You won't escape me this time, Satine,"_ he said, reaching for her.

She couldn't run, couldn't escape. This was the end.

He towered over her, blocking out all light. Like a suffocating fog, his black robe engulfed her and all she could see was the yellow of his glare glimmer in the dark. The cold was unbearable. She trembled all over.

 _"You're mine."_

"Oh-oh-ohb…" she gasped, teeth chattering.

Her words cut off, she felt as if she would bite through her tongue. She could feel her body begin to numb as the nerves died in the rapidly dropping temperature. The light of Coruscant was a faint reminder in the back of her head.

"Satine?"

Maul hissed and she was released harshly, thrown backward, falling to the ground. The Sith's spell was snapped. The heat of the day shattered the freeze, but her bones still quivered. It felt as if she would never be warm again.

Despite this, she pushed herself up and began to hobble away again, a scream caught in her throat.

Except this time, she ran right into Obi-wan. She almost fell again, but he caught her before she could slip.

"Hold on there!" he exclaimed, confusion and worry in his eyes. "What happened?"

Her teeth still chattered and her fingers began to burn as warmth returned to them. She shook her head, back and forth, back and forth. She tried to open her mouth, tried to explain, but the shivering was taking over.

Seeing that she was on the verge of panic attack of some sort, he led her gently to one of the alley walls and cleared a space for her to sit.

"Here," he instructed calmly. "Sit and put your head between your legs."

She did as he said, but it still felt as if she was having her own personal earthquake.

"Breathe," he directed, rubbing her back through his sleeve. "That's it. Just breathe. There's no danger here."

She heard other footsteps coming close. Her head whisked up, her expression bordered on savage.

"Don't worry," Obi soothed. "It's just Anakin and Ahsoka. Put your head down. Keep breathing."

He was right. The other two Jedi came jogging up to the pair, just as confused as their Master.

Swallowing thickly, she nodded, and repeated the process. It was beginning to help, though her flesh still burned as if she had just come inside after hours in a blizzard. Her teeth no longer rattled and yet there was a pervading tingle of ice on her skin.

She rubbed her shoulders, trying to warm them.

Obi-wan cocked a brow. It was a scorcher of a day. She couldn't possibly be cold.

The terror and frost leaked slowly from her veins. She sat up and felt profoundly weak, as if she hadn't eaten in years.

With tired eyes, she peered at Obi-wan.

"Now, what happened?" the Knight repeated, tucking his hands resolutely into his sleeves.

Too tired to try and figure out his feelings, she leaned her head against the wall.

"I saw him," she whispered. "I saw Maul."

Their hoods were down, so she could see just exactly how pessimistic they were when she told them. Anakin most of all with Ahsoka a close second, but Obi-wan began to stroke his beard.

"Where?" he asked, brow furrowed.

She told him of how the Sith had been in the crowd when they had become separated, how he had followed her to the alley.

"It was cold," she explained, shivering at the thought. "The coldest I've ever been. I couldn't scream because my teeth chattered so terribly."

Curious, she studied her fingers. There was a faint pink on the tips that felt raw and frigid. It couldn't have been all in her head.

"May I?" Obi-wan inquired, reaching for her hand.

She complied instantly and his lips pulled down in a frown. Then, he began to hold her fingers close to his face, almost touching his beard as he analyzed them. She worried that he would say he didn't see or feel anything, that she was insane. Instead, a flash of shock shot through his inquiring stare.

"Anakin, come here," he ordered without looking over his shoulder.

Obi-wan prodded her scratched palm, making her wince.

In an instant, the young Jedi was there, crouching next to his former Master.

"Here, feel this," Obi-wan said straightforwardly, passing her hand off to the boy like an interesting clue.

She had become used to Obi's touch, the way his hand melted seamlessly with hers, but he had been the only one that had ever held it. Now, she bit back the urge to cringe away.

Smirking apologetically, Anakin carefully took her hand as if it would break at the slightest poke. His skin was far more rough and haggard than the Knight's. She couldn't begin to count the scars, calluses, and blisters. It spoke of war and bloodshed, constant fighting.

Nevertheless, the same look of astonishment crossed his face and he turned to Obi. They shared a heavy look.

 _That can't be good,_ she thought.

"What is it?" she asked frightfully.

Anakin dropped her hand. It flopped to her side and she took to looking at it anxiously.

"It's cold," Obi-wan responded vaguely, stroking his beard.

A blaze of annoyance bubbled inside her.

"Yes, I know," she said bitingly. "That's what I said, isn't it? But what does it _mean_?"

"The Council will know," Anakin murmured to the Knight, not even responding to her question, to the fact she had spoken.

Obi-wan nodded. His face was focused, as if he was trying to figure out a tricky puzzle. Without another word, Anakin stood and began walking away. He and Ahsoka disappeared into the light.

Soon, the Knight was also on his feet. He extended a gloved hand to her, though he looked away when he did so. Sighing, she accepted it and stumbled into a shaky stance. As soon as she could stand on her power, he yanked his arm away.

"Do you think you can make it to the curb?" he asked distantly as he pulled his hood up.

Besides the fact that a Sith had just attacked her in broad daylight, she was still heatedly annoyed by his sudden callous attitude. It was getting on her last nerves. Why couldn't he just stay one person? Why did he have to make everything confused and conflicted? She wanted to rip the mask of indifference off his face.

Determined to show no more weakness around him, she shook her head and pushed past him.

"Yes, thank you," she snapped and stalked off, ignoring her knocking knees.

There were many other words she had wanted to have with him, all of which were completely inappropriate. It was clear the last thing he desired was her company or her affection. Although she knew that whenever he was in the capital he was a different person, it still bothered her that he had to pretend.

 _What if he's not pretending? What if this is who he really is?_

But facts said otherwise. He had been so caring after Mandalore, more attentive than she had ever seen him. Although she didn't remember the fight after Maul strangled her, she knew Obi-wan had sacrificed much for her safety—literally an arm and a leg.

A nagging feeling in the back of her head also made her wonder if he had done something else, something far more powerful. The doctors had said she was lucky to be alive and the Jedi had avoided the subject of her near-death experience entirely.

All she could recall was an infinite black and then the next moment she was in the Bacta tank.

As she stepped into the light, spotting the other Jedi, she didn't know why she couldn't get over Kenobi, why it killed her when he acted so unemotionally. Their relationship had never been possible, but the hope she carried around with her had yet to learn.

She sighed and joined the others, eager to get the meeting over with. The group had apparently seen reason and decided on securing a taxi after all. Soon she would have to take on her next challenge of standing before the most powerful Jedi in the galaxy, but it seemed far better in comparison to what she had just faced.

Obi-wan remained in the alley, staring into the shadows, looking for a ghost. As he heard Anakin calling him, he glared once more into the now peaceful-looking dark and turned on a heel, pulling his robe tightly around him.


	35. Temple

**A/N: Hello all! It's been a while! Sorry for the wait, it's been a bit crazy this summer. I hope y'all are still interested :P Let me know what you think!~**

Fortunately for Satine, the taxi ride to the temple was uneventful. It was almost odd how simple it was. There were no ships, Sith, or bounty hunters chasing them. No shadows lurked in the peripheral of her eye, and she sensed no one watching her. The only annoyance was the traffic, which made the group doubly late.

"Can't this thing go any faster?" Anakin growled under his breath for the hundredth time.

His knee shook impatiently as he glowered at the back of the driver's tentacled head. Ahsoka and Satine sat in the backseat with the scowling boy, squished uncomfortably together with the Padawan in between. The girl's head-tails swung into Anakin's face every time the cab made a hard lurch and it was obvious that Skywalker was about to lose it.

Although shorter in stature, Obi-wan sat serenely in the passenger seat, barely paying attention to the annoyed grunts coming from behind. Instead, he took to stroking his beard, as was his wont. His features were crumpled as he stared at nothing, lost in his head.

The stops and starts of the ship were enough to make anyone nauseous, and yet Satine paid it little mind. The shock of the city and seeing the Sith had tired her out. In the space of only a couple hours she had gone through much and yet there was no time to process.

From Jedi to Sith and back again—she was being pulled in a deadly tug-of-war between good and evil.

The entire trip to the temple went by in a funny haze. She was sure she slept for a large part of it because, before she knew it, Obi-wan was opening her door and his honor-bound hand was awaiting hers, hood pulled over his stern face. Blurry-eyed and pale she accepted it dreamily and wavered to her feet, leaning heavily on the Knight.

It was clear that he wanted to rid himself from her as soon as possible. His body was rigid underneath the mass of robes and his exposed chin was clenched. Despite this, he nonetheless made no attempt to pass her off to Ahsoka. Instead, he led her steadily forward, careful not to go too quickly as they approached the intimidating steps that led to the courtyard.

She wanted to roll her eyes at his plethora of mixed signals, but she soon found herself awestruck.

From a distance the temple was impressive, but it was nothing compared to being at the foot of it. It ate up the sky like an ancient ziggurat, except even larger and far more alive, with people going in and out and ships buzzing around. The spires that sprung from the roof seemed to go for miles, as if they were attempting to reach heaven.

But more than the outright massiveness of the place was the beauty of it.

The entire building was made of a faded white stone that shone in the sun and would surely be magnificent under a full night sky. It was almost painful to look at for too long.

Then there were four one-hundred-foot-high relief statues carved up the front of the temple. Each figure was posed in a standard Jedi fighting position, and Satine guessed that these four had played a part in founding the temple. If she had been more awake, she would have asked Obi who they were, but she decided it was a conversation for another time.

For now, she was just happy he was holding her steady and she gripped his gloved hand tightly as the pair ascended up the cobbled steps. Nevertheless, as soon as she reached the top step, he recoiled from her once more and, before she knew it, he was ten feet ahead of her and the other two Jedi.

Anakin scrambled after, passing Satine and Ahsoka in a flash. He struggled to position his hood as he jogged. In response, the Padawan snorted loudly, amused by her Master's lack of nonchalance. But Satine only stared after Obi-wan, wondering if she should have come at all. It was clear all she was doing was causing more pain.

If only she knew what was hurting him! How could she help if she didn't know?

"C'mon Duchess!" Ahsoka finally exclaimed, grabbing Satine's arm and tugging her forward. "We don't want to get separated again."

Although Satine knew it was a joke, she could hardly keep herself from shivering at the recent memory. Limply, she let herself be hauled toward the entryway. Small clusters of Jedi, workers, and tourists whirred around her, but she barely took any notice of them.

The other two Jedi had apparently decided to wait for the lagging girls. They stood stoically by the gates, identical cloaked figures.

"Sorry for keeping you, Masters," Ahsoka apologized in a breath as she bounded up to the men, Satine in tow.

"Don't make a habit of it," Obi-wan practically snapped, not even bothering to turn and face his pupil or the Duchess. "We're already late enough as it is."

Without another word, he turned sharply on his heel and marched away. Once more, Anakin hurried after him, cloak ruffling. Rolling her eyes, Ahsoka swore under her breath and grudgingly followed suit.

"What's got him all agitated?" she grumbled.

 _If only I knew..._ Satine thought morosely.

The stone courtyard in front of the temple spanned about a mile. Guards were placed symmetrically at the perfectly rectangle entrances. Their white uniforms blended in seamlessly with the bleached stones.

Although they wore disguises over their faces, they still had their hoods up, making it impossible to distinguish one from the other. For all Satine knew, there could be droids underneath those unnerving masks. Their cloaks were wrapped around them, but it was clear that beneath they held weapons. If the wind blew, one could see a sparkle of a metal staff.

Nevertheless, as Satine and her group approached, the sentries did nothing to stop them. They only spotted the familiar forms of the Jedi and parted. Obi-wan nodded absently as he led the trio into the looming entryway.

As Satine entered, a refreshing gust of cool air hit her. Dark marble spanned below her feet, with zigzagging pale blue patterns that went nowhere in particular and yet appeared to have an abstract purpose.

Huge, rounded pillars made of the same material lined the never-ending court. Perhaps dozens of hallways shot off from the main lobby, leading to different areas of the temple.

As she passed, she spotted statues of famous Masters and bubbling, magnificent fountains. There was an air of magic and mystery about the atmosphere. High windows let in streaks of shimmering light that bounced off the marble, making everything appear glittery.

An awed hum was all around her as groups of brown-cloaked Jedi went about their daily routine. They shuffled out of the way as her party made the journey down the expansive corridor.

"Where are we meeting the Council?" Satine managed to whisper, noticing that her guides made no move to go down any of the hallways they passed.

"They're at the top," Ahsoka replied in a chirp. "Don't worry. It's not much farther now."

Satine hummed a nervous response.

Although the hem of her once pristine dress was torn in a few places, she didn't appear completely disheveled. Her hair had remained in place—a miracle—and she didn't think she had smudged her face with dirt too badly in her attempt to run away from Maul...or whatever that apparition was.

Nonetheless, she was worried that the Jedi would want to know every dirty detail of her imprisonment under the Sith and that she wouldn't be ready to tell them everything. Would they interrogate her? Would they push her beyond her limits? What if she couldn't say the words? What if she broke down?

What if Maul's voice returned?

 _I just need to get in and get out,_ she instructed herself.

The quicker she figured out why she was seeing the Sith everywhere, the sooner she could pick up the pieces of her shattered life.

Nevertheless, it didn't take a mind reader to know what the Council would determine. After hearing about what she had undergone, they would brand her as a poor, traumatized thing, completely delusional in every way. They would tell her it was all in her head and that there was nothing they could do.

Perhaps that was why Obi was so cold and distant—he saw her for what she was now: insane.

She stifled a sigh and peeked at the Jedi Knight's back. More than anything she wished that they could be friends again. She yet knew what she had done to deserve his sudden, inexplicable hatred, but she also knew that he never did anything without a reason.

The crowd began to thin as she and her Jedi escorts reached the end of the passageway. High windows, far above her head, still poured in light and yet it seemed darker in this part of the temple. There was a palpable unease as she approached a single elevator leading to the roof.

Another strand of temple guards stood resolutely next to the launching pad. Unlike their counterparts, these statuesque sentries stopped the group.

"Halt. What is your business here?" one of them questioned, his voice deep and authoritative as it radiated from behind the gold-streaked mask.

"We have an appointment with the High Council," Obi-wan responded calmly, arms tucked into his sleeves.

The anonymous guard peered around the Jedi's shoulder. His unseen eyes seemed to burn into Satine, she felt their presence land on her like a kidney shot.

"And who is this?" he questioned sharply. "She is no Jedi."

Satine stiffened, but she swallowed her obnoxious fear. She had no reason to be afraid. After all, it was the Council that had summoned _her_ , not the other way around.

"She is why we are here," Obi said with an edge of annoyance in his voice. "This is Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore, and she has valuable information pertaining to the Sith."

The mystery guard barely reacted to the fact that Kenobi had spoken. The black slits in his mask that disguised his eyes made him appear to be inhuman. It contrasted oddly with the glimmering gold swirls that decorated his white façade.

At a glance, these protectors of the temple appeared noble, almost angelic in their glittering robes, but it was now clear to Satine that they were still people, still imperfect.

 _And rude,_ she added for good measure.

"Very well," the man finally admonished. "Come along."

With a twirl of his cloak, he strode gracefully back to his usual position as she and the Jedi followed. He then stopped abruptly and opened the barrier to the elevator. Standing stock-still, he waited as each member of the party passed and stepped onto the platform.

Satine could still feel his invisible eyes on her back and she swallowed the urge to shiver. The sound of the rail clicking back into place rang in the quiet. As soon as it did, the platform began to rise and the group was whisked into the air, careening toward the High Council chambers.

The boys stood at the front, ready to bound off the elevator as soon as it stopped. Obi-wan's back was still to Satine. The anger that she had felt earlier that day had thawed into a numb sadness. She sighed deeply.

Mistaking her melancholy for something else, Ahsoka snatched the Duchess's hand in hers and gave it a comforting squeeze.

"It'll be alright, Duchess," the Padawan whispered in her ear. "The Council is very wise. I'm sure they'll know what to do."

Grimacing, Satine gave a tight nod and let her grieved eyes droop to the floor.

She was not convinced.


	36. Revelation

Satine wrung her hands on her lap as she waited in the intense quiet of the waiting room outside the chamber doors. Obi-wan was in there now, probably explaining the situation. She squirmed in her seat as she wondered what he was revealing.

Ahsoka kneeled by Satine patiently, trying to calm her explosive nerves. The Padawan couldn't help but feel sorry for the Duchess. She was wound tighter than a drum as she leaned in her chair, ready to bolt.

Anakin stood against the wall, leaning casually against it. He appeared completely unperturbed by the entire ordeal. Satine couldn't understand his blind loyalty to the Council. What happened when it was wrong? What happened when the mighty Jedi Council made a mistake?

She took a breath and reminded herself for the umpteenth time that these sagely beings rarely were mistaken. They were the best of the best, right? Who was she to question them? She wasn't even a Jedi!

The makeup was beginning to grow heavy on her face. She wanted to swipe it off, but doing so would reveal the extent of her hideous scars. More than anything she wished that they would disappear before the meeting.

She rubbed her thighs, attempting to rid her palms of sweat. What if they wanted to see the markings? Would they gasp? Would they laugh?

She groaned aloud and shot out of her seat.

"What's taking him so long?" she snapped. "It's been an hour!"

Cool and collected, Anakin turned his face to peer at her with steady eyes.

"These things take time Duchess," he responded vaguely.

Annoyed, Satine narrowed her eyes. Who was this boy to patronize her? She may have been rudely dethroned, but that was no reason to assume she was a simpleton!

There was something that these Jedi weren't telling her. She felt it in her gut. Something had happened when she wasn't looking. She had been in politics long enough to recognize back door dealing.

Anakin held her glare easily, revealing nothing.

Just then, the panels swooshed open. Obi-wan stepped out and took a calm look at Satine, who had her hands clenched and a deadly glare aimed right at Anakin.

If he hadn't been trying to keep his emotions so in check, he would have laughed at the scene. Yet, Kenobi did not chuckle or jest in his usual easy-going style. Instead, he swallowed himself and spat out a stranger.

With a face as hard as stone and eyes as cold as glaciers, he turned his back on his former apprentice and stared at the irritated Satine.

"The Council will see you now."

The chill in his voice sapped the tension in the room. With a flush still tingling on her cheeks, Satine sagged her shoulders and lowered her gaze to the ground.

"Am I to be alone?" she asked in a strict monotone.

A strand of sunflower hair dropped into her downcast eyes. She refused to look at the man who had replaced her once dear friend. He was an alien now.

Surprised by her stark reaction, Obi-wan hesitated. Although he would never be able to tell her, it was agony having to hurt her like this.

His fingers flinched. He couldn't stop staring at her. Entranced, he took a step forward.

However, before he could do something foolish, a nudge in the ribs broke his concentration. Startled, he wrenched his gaze away from the Duchess.

Anakin still leaned casually on the door frame next to him, but now he looked at Obi-wan with narrowed eyes and a rigid expression.

With a slight nod, Obi-wan regained his arctic composure. He stepped back.

"Yes. Follow me now."

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.

Apparently, Satine did not notice the silent exchange for she obeyed him and went into the dark hallway without protest.

From there, the walk to the Council chambers was quick and sadly silent. The Knight made no attempt to speak to her and she mirrored him.

Soon, she and her escort arrived at another set of panels. Light leaked from the slits.

Hands clasped tightly in front of her, Satine still had no idea what lay ahead. A naïve part of her wished that the Council would have all the answers, but she doubted it.

Just as she and the Knight approached the mysterious door, Obi-wan stopped suddenly and whisked around. Unable to fake a disinterested reaction, she foolishly met his eyes.

A battle waged in them. But who the opponents were, she wasn't sure.

Then, in a flash, he closed the space between them and put his hands on her slight shoulders. She cringed at the suddenness, but did not move. A jolt of electricity passed between them as he squeezed her shoulders. It traveled down her arms, leaving a tingling trail. The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention.

There was a silent plea on his face, an angst that caught her off-guard. Instinctively, she put her hand over his.

She should have known better.

At the touch, he jerked away, taking several steps and turning his back to her. Lips parted, she wanted to ask him what she had done, but there was a disconnect between her mind and mouth.

Then, he lightly knocked on the door. When he turned to face her again, he was ice.

"Good luck," he grumbled as he pushed passed her.

She stared after him, dumbstruck. There was no logical explanation she could think of that explained his behavior, no inkling that connected the dots of his split personalities.

As she watched the ruffle of his cloak fade into shadow, the panels opened. She bolted back around. Her mind rushed as she tried to refocus.

"You can come in now, Duchess," said a rumbling voice.

Shaking her head, she tried to tear herself away from Obi-wan. The touch from his hands on her shoulders lingered, as did the frostbite of his stare. Seconds passed as she put herself together again, pushing her confusion down.

 _In and out._

With a breath, she pulled her shoulders back, put her chin up, and walked as confidently as she could into the spherical room.

Twelve chairs, twelve intimidating Jedi, sat in a circle. The walls were made of windows, letting in gentle rays of sunlight. It was warm, but not uncomfortable. The floor was marble with a flowering pattern decorating the middle of the room. It would have been a good place to see the entire city from if it wasn't filled with Jedi Masters.

There were a variety of different species filling up the seats, from human to Togrutan to Kel Dorian and some even she had not seen before. Even though each member was different in size, shape, and color, they each had the same spirit of calm.

Their eyes spoke of experience, as if there was nothing she could say that would surprise them. However, there was also a sense of indifference about them. They seemed to live in a different time as they sat stoically around her, a part of this world and yet completely separated from it, like legendary heroes from a bygone age.

They all wore the standard Jedi robe, making it difficult to focus on any individual in particular. In her peripheral, she noticed flashes of bright color, but it became lost in the brown haze.

From a first impression, she couldn't see Obi-wan, the real one, sitting here. No one smiled. No one spoke. No one moved.

They were every bit as intimidating as she imagined. Paralyzed, she stood a foot from the door.

"Please, come," a small, wrinkled, and green creature on her right chirped. "Bite, we do not."

With a blush and a tight grimace, she stepped warily into the middle of the space and faced the Master that had spoken. He sat cross-legged, but even if he stretched his legs his toes would not reach the edge of the seat. It was difficult to imagine him wielding a lightsaber.

She stood in the direct center of the floral pattern with her back to some of the members. She did not expect them to harm her, but she also didn't trust them just yet.

"There is no need to fear us, Duchess," a chocolate-skinned human said perceptively to her. "We are only here to help."

The man sat next to the tiny, riddle-speaking Master, and it was clear that the two of them were in charge. His features were severe, with a shaved head, sharp bone structure, a permanently furrowed brow, and a glance that could send any thug running for his life.

"I am Master Windu," he started, voice gruff but not unkind. "This is Master Yoda," he continued as he motioned to his right.

Yoda nodded politely. His perceiving gaze made Satine uneasy, but she tried to smile back. Windu then went around the room, introducing each of the other ten Masters. Some of them were holograms, but the majority was there in the flesh. She wasn't surprised by the absences. The war was still in full swing.

When the introductions made it back to Windu, the names blurred together in her head. There were many eccentric ones, some of which had multiple words with odd pronunciations.

"Would you like to sit?" one Master, a Kel Dorian sitting to her left, asked considerately. "It may be a long session."

Although he appeared alarming with his scaly, rust-colored skin, black claws, and a metal contraption over his mouth and eyes, his voice was soothing and full of concern. With a thankful glance, she shook her head.

"No thank you."

The feeling of eyes on her brought back painful memories. A Death Watch helmet, painted red and black, flashed in her mind's eye and her skin prickled in response.

She winced.

"We are aware this must be difficult for you, Duchess," Windu said, and Satine wondered if he was reading her mind. "But we need you to be as honest as possible. Obi-wan told us much about his experience, but there are still pieces missing. We hope that you can tell us what he could not."

The relief of knowing that Obi-wan had not revealed every dirty detail was short lived. Apparently, they were saving that honor for her.

"You want to know what Maul did to me," she surmised with effort, folding her arms.

"Ashamed, are you?" Yoda bluntly asked.

His constant stare, and accurate readings, made her stomach flip. There was no devilish burn in it like Maul's and yet it tore through her nonetheless.

"I'm certainly not proud of what happened," she replied.

"Why?" he continued. "Survived, you did."

A torrent of despair arose out of nowhere. Did it matter that she survived? There was nothing left.

Unable to respond to the discerning little Master, she nodded at the floor.

"I can tell you are a proud woman, Duchess," Windu suddenly deduced, his hands crossed under his chin as he leaned forward. "And I see that you are resilient. Only someone exceptionally strong-willed could have survived what you did. For that, I commend you."

Was this how it was going to be for the rest of the time? Would every Jedi get a crack at diagnosing her?

"I also am aware that we have you to thank for saving a Jedi Knight's life," he continued.

The shadowy memory of that horrible night was imprinted on her very soul. There had been so much blood.

"I did what was necessary," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I would say you went beyond that," he retorted confidently, albeit with a frown. "Without your help, we would still be in the dark about the Sith's growing presence in the galaxy. Your sacrifice is a debt the Jedi can never repay."

They made it sound as if she had been sent on a mission, that the entire ordeal had been planned.

 _I'm no soldier,_ she thought rebelliously.

"I did not do it for any glory, Master Jedi," she said suddenly, finding a burst of passion. "I did what I did because I am a pacifist. There was a man bleeding to death at my feet and I will not stand by as the innocent suffer. Even if he hadn't been a Jedi, I still would have chosen to save him."

"So it had nothing to do with the fact that you and Obi-wan are friends?" the Kel Dorian Master questioned.

Satine turned her head to gaze at the creature. Her face and heart betrayed nothing. She had grown accustomed to hiding her true emotions. How strange it was that just as she hid herself from Maul, now she was attempting to do the same with the Jedi.

"Knight Kenobi and I do have a history together," she relinquished nebulously. "But I still stand by my statement. I wouldn't have acted any differently, friendship or not."

"That is good to hear," Windu cut in and the rest of the Masters nodded in agreement.

Satine was not a fool. She knew what the Council suspected: Obi-wan had grown attached to her.

She wasn't surprised by their suspicion, but she was taken aback that they cared enough about Obi-wan's interpersonal life to ask her about it now.

And for the moment her words seemed to put the other Jedi at ease, but she would have to be cautious going forward. A slip of the tongue or heart on her part could mean disaster for Obi-wan. It was clear that these Jedi were just as observant of feelings as their Sith counterparts.

"Settled, it is then," Yoda announced sagely.

Yet, by the sound of defeat in his voice, it was clear that it wasn't.

His wise, withering gaze searched Satine one more time as he probed for a lie, but she remained vigilant. Her mind and soul became just as blank as the expression on her face. Maul had taught her well in this area. So well that if Yoda thought she would break first, he would be sorely disappointed.

As expected, the wrinkled creature gave up the fight for the moment. An infinitesimal bubble of pride popped in her gut—she had won.

He then nodded at Windu, breaking eye contact with the Duchess.

"Continue, you may."

From there, the meeting grew more intensive, if that were possible. Windu and the other members fired questions as they thought of them. Sometimes there was barely any train of thought. One Master may wonder about Maul's temperament as a dictator, and then another Council member would derail the entire conversation. All the while, she could feel Yoda's stare, trying to see past her defenses as she was jerked back and forth by the others.

But she never relented. He was not the first to try and catch her off guard.

"Did you ever try to escape?" a Togrutan, Shaak Ti, pondered coolly.

Another wretched memory clawed its way up through Satine's brain. She recalled the palpable fear, the foolish distress signal as she crouched in a deserted hallway. Then there was even worse terror of being caught as she pleaded for help.

What had he said?

 _"Your prayers have been answered."_ came the resounding memory of Maul's rasping voice.

"Yes," she answered, staring without seeing, becoming lost in the recollection. "It was the first night, I think."

"You don't know?" came the quick rebuttal from another voice, another faceless Jedi.

Her gaze and mind refocused as she tried to recollect the specifics.

"I fell asleep. It was always dark," she defended, still unsure who had spoken. "When I woke up, I was given a change of clothes and met with Maul for a second time. I tried to escape after that."

"New clothes?" a Nautolan Master, Fisto, pondered with a dubious expression on his yellow-green face.

Apparently he didn't think fashion was in a Sith's wheelhouse. Little did he know that it had nothing to do with clothes or aesthetic. It was all power.

"Yes," Satine said with a snap in her tone. "I wore the same… _uniform…_ every day."

"What did it look like?" Fisto continued, intrigued.

Annoyed, she turned to stare at him. His amphibious face was friendly enough, or as inviting as it could be with his mass of green tentacle tresses that sprouted from his head, and eyes that were huge and completely pitch black.

"Is that really necessary?" she spat back at him.

"It's not a hard question, Duchess," he challenged with a heavy accent. "And we must know every single detail. The smallest streams can lead to the largest oceans."

She suppressed an eye roll. Did they teach a class on obscure sayings or did that come with the robe?

"Fine," she relented with a frown. "It was black and red. There was a one-sleeved tunic and a skirt. I wore no shoes. Chains were my bracelets."

That seemed to shut him up—he simply nodded.

"So you tried to escape when?" the Kel Dorian reminded her.

She tried to remember his name as she silently thanked him for the change of subject. Plo…something?

"I tried to escape after they... _flogged_ Obi-wan," she managed to cough out, screwing up her face at the memory.

"Were you successful?" a Cerean member asked, his massive, oval-shaped head glistened in the fading sunlight.

She didn't even try to remember what they called him. There were too many syllables to count.

"Yes and no," she answered. "Maul had been angry with me for acting 'disobediently' as he put it. He dragged me into hallway."

The recollections were beginning to take a toll. Every second she saw as blood sprayed from Obi's lips, or felt as the air dried up in her lungs, as Drack's knife carved into her skin. The pain was beginning to muddle together.

She closed her eyes, concentrating.

Maul was silent as he towed her backward. Her legs kicked, but it was hopeless.

Then he said:

" _Now pay the price,_ Satine. _"_

That had been the first time he called her by name.

"We were alone," she continued in a whisper. "I fought and got in a lucky shot. I ran, but I couldn't get far with that blasted choker on. He found me."

No air. No hope.

 _"There is_ nothing _."_

"What was that? A choker?" Kit Fisto cut in. "You didn't mention that as part of the uh, 'uniform'."

Her eyes flickered open. Maul's face before hers dissolved as her brain switched tracks.

"Ah, I apologize. I guess I forgot about it," she said sheepishly with a shrug. "It was a leather strap with a metal symbol attached to it. He would tighten it to the point where I couldn't breathe."

"What was the symbol?"

The Masters leaned in.

"A circle surrounded by flames."

The Jedi exchanged glances, and it seemed as if they were speaking with one another. She waited, trying to guess the unspoken conversation. She hated that necklace more than anyone, but by the end it was just another horror.

From there, she explained Maul's relationship with Savage—something even she knew little about—as well as his alliance with the Trade Federation, which intrigued the Council immensely. The questions circled around that topic for quite some time, and she was happy to oblige.

It was a welcome break from the more traumatic experiences she had relived that day. Political corruption was far down on that list.

"So you only tried to escape once?" Plo then asked, much to her chagrin.

His question almost made her cringe. She had hoped he would have forgotten.

"Yes," she said in a sharp breath.

"Why?" he pressed, black claws folded under his metal-covered mandibles.

"I guess because I knew it would be impossible if I tried again," she responded quickly, feet fidgeting.

"Why is that?"

Insecure and thoroughly annoyed, she wondered why he was so intent on having her say it. With a long moment, she clenched her jaw, curled her hands into fists at her sides, hunched her shoulders into her neck, all in an attempt to swallow the guilt.

The shield she had tried so hard to maintain was shattering. The probing of the Jedi was proving too much, and she was out of practice.

"I couldn't escape because Maul could read my every thought," she revealed through gritted teeth.

As expected, questions rang out all around her—she had hit a new nerve.

"At all times? Even when you slept?"

"What was the range?"

"How attuned to him did you become?"

Despite how pathetic and wretched she felt, she tried her best to answer all of their inquiries as fast as possible. The memories began to blur, there were too many of them to count:

Her in the garden, revealing Obi-wan's secrets.

No peace. Every dream became a nightmare, every waking moment was hell.

Then she was sitting placidly next to him as he dictated kill orders, too tired and broken to care.

Bruises and scratches, ripped skin, broken bones...Maul painting her face. It burned. It tore her flesh off.

"If I thought about anything that displeased him..." she found herself saying.

Then the words ran dry. She swallowed. They waited for her.

The burn of the Sith's venom drowned out all sense. The infection of the memory spread. There was only his devilish face, grinning, as he set her on fire.

Robotically, she began to wipe her face and the once pristine, blue sleeve came back white. The Jedi had to _see_ , had to understand.

As the cloth rubbed against her marred cheeks, silent tears streamed down her face.

"...then I had to be punished," she finished.


	37. Balance

In a cold sweat, Satine gasped as she shot up, bed covers flying. Panting, her unfocused eyes searched for an invisible enemy in the dark. Yet all that greeted her was the bland, blocky furniture of her temporary bedroom in the Senate building. A faint opaque glow was trying to push through the slits of the velvet shawl that draped over the window—the dawn had yet to arise.

Appeased but still shaken, Satine laid back down heavily, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird in the stagnant dark. The nightmare had been incredibly vivid. She was certain it had been real.

Satine knew there was now no going back to sleep. Every nerve stood on end as the terror of the dream jarred her body awake. She could only remember a few of the images: a faceless shadow, ripping claws, and her own face dissolving into smoke.

Covered in a veil of perspiration, she rubbed the back of her neck and brought her knees to her chest, attempting to stall the shaking. She wrapped her arms around her legs and buried her head.

Last week's surrealistic escapade had not yet left her either—the walk to the Temple, the vision or apparition or whatever it was of Maul, Obi-wan's callousness, and the circular room of spinning, questioning Jedi. She had revealed herself, her trauma to the Masters but they did not provide her any answers. They elected to deliberate further. Meanwhile, they told her to rest, recuperate, and wait for their summons.

At first, she took their advice seriously—she slept a day and a half. Then, she sat on her balcony and watched the horizon, studied the ant-like people down below, felt the hot Coruscant breeze on her icy skin. Then, she slept some more. However, after the third day, she began to feel edgy. Food was brought up to her, but whoever brought it made sure to come when she was occupied and leave before she could thank them.

There was only so much one could do in a room. There was no literature or information, no one ever visited—probably thinking she wanted some peace and quiet.

She puffed a laugh into her chest and rested her cheek on her arm. Memories swirled like fog in her mind, leaping in and out of clarity like a reverie. It was as if they belonged to a different person. She, Satine, Duchess of Mandalore, couldn't have been held hostage by a Sith. She couldn't have been humiliated and tortured like that. Surely it wasn't her.

She lifted a hand to her face to study it. The hospital had been good, but she could still detect pale, wobbly scars from the many beatings and traumas. Tiny stripes of bumpy skin decorated her arms, legs, and neck.

She had a difficult time remembering just where they all came from. One might have been the result of a fall or the imprint of Maul's claw or maybe by her own hand. Many times during her capture she had looked down surprised to see a palm-full of blood because she had been digging her nails so viciously into her flesh—a response to the distress of her situation.

Maul would have labeled such things as being 'dramatic.'

She stopped the train of thought as soon as it cropped up. She couldn't think like that. It would no doubt end horribly with her seeing and hearing things that weren't there, weren't real.

Yet what could be done? How was she to heal if she couldn't process what had happened? The memories of the past months sat lurking, beckoning. Eventually she would have to wade through them, no matter the peril. If she didn't, they would surely overwhelm her again.

 _I wish I could talk to someone_ ,she thought morosely, but it appeared no one felt the same. They now avoided her like an infectious plague.

Of course she knew who she really wanted to see, but it fared unlikely. Obi-wan was acting like his old, incomprehensible self—bouncing from concerned to callous, from friend to enemy. Satine had no idea when he would become normal—or at least fathomable—again. Even though he alone knew firsthand what had happened on Mandalore, he chose to turn a blind eye, deny her very existence.

They did not even have to talk about the elephant in the room. Couldn't they just sit in each other's company and discuss stupid, silly things like they used to? Even that would be better than nothing—which was what she was getting now.

She glared at the ceiling and lowered her arm absentmindedly.

 _He's probably off on some general, Jedi job anyway_ , she mused bitterly.

With a critical eye, she surveyed the same, trite room.

It was silent, annoyingly so. The quiet laughed at her, teased her. After so much, she was reduced to moping in a cushy bed in some opulent building, unable to find a release for her pent-up energy.

She wanted to do something, _fight_ something. It was irritating being the victim constantly.

 _Well if Obi-wan can be out there, then so can I!_

With a grumpy harrumph, she whisked the covers back and leapt out of bed. Bathing, dressing simply in a loose tunic and pants and throwing her hair up, she was ready to start the day…even though she had nothing to do and nowhere to go. Nevertheless, she resolved to leave the room. That was a start.

She was sure she would be chastised for leaving without an escort or some rubbish like that, but she was a grown woman, and she would do what she liked when she liked, she told herself. It had been ages since she had been able to come and go out of own volition, and she was not going to stay in a cell, however luxurious, another moment. Not when ghosts lurked in the walls of her head, ready to possess her.

Marching down the halls, she looked for a prospect. Perhaps she could help out at the kitchens or weed the plants or carry groceries or try and find a library or strike up conversation with a stranger. A thousand ideas sprang to and fro and she wanted to do all of them, yet she was unfamiliar with the area. What she needed was a guide, preferably one who didn't know who she was.

Taking the lift down to the ground floor, she stared jadedly at the crawling rays of light and parting clouds. Even though it was still just before sunrise, it looked like another sweltering day. A blood-orange hue was re-painting the shadowed skyscrapers and coloring the darkened ground, making it appear as if the planet was turning into oozing lava.

She would have to find something to do inside.

Irritated that her options had dwindled, she supposed she could ask a droid where the kitchens were. The Senate was sure to have one, what with the esteemed clientele; however, she was no cook and it had been a time since she even attempted making a meal, but she had always enjoyed the thrum of the chefs and servants as they whistled in and out, carrying and washing dishes, creating delicacies, completely engrossed in their work. Their lives had always appeared far more put together than hers. The simple elegance of the everyday was a tantalizing luxury for a harried Duchess, even more so now that her life had been completely shipwrecked.

As she descended, she noted that the atrium was unusually quiet and empty. Only a few secretive lobbyists stood conferring, their mismatched heads close together and their words in whispers. A shiny, high desk stood against the far wall with servant droids standing attentively behind it.

Clicks, whirs, and a chorus a beeps emanated from the station. Satine took it as a good sign. Stepping confidently off the platform she made a beeline for the counter.

"Excuse me?"

A sparkling silver droid flinched in her direction as she approached.

"Hello Miss!" it trilled, bright yellow eyes flashing. "Welcome to the Senate! What can I do for you this morning?"

Satine smiled and cleared her throat, pleased that the droid did not seem to know her.

"Well I was just wondering," she began meekly. "If you could tell me where the lower levels go?"

"Of course, Miss! The lifts go several levels down from here. At the bottom is where the Senate keeps storage—I'm afraid that is off limits to visitors—one up from there is staff quarters, then there are the kitchen and cleaning service depots, then there's the department of sanitation and grounds-keeping, then…"

The droid listed off a few more floors, none of which intrigued Satine.

"Is there anything else I can do for you Miss?" the droid asked mechanically after it had exhausted all the options.

"No…thank you. You have been most helpful."

"My pleasure, Miss!"

Pleased, Satine whisked back around and made a way back to the lifts. Running the directions over in her head several times, she boarded the platform, jabbed a button, and descended through the floor, into the lower echelons of the massive building. The scenery became increasingly dark as the lift sped quickly down, down, down.

Finally, the platform glided to a halt and Satine stumbled out into a dimly lit corridor. It was narrow with golden-laced lamps hanging on either side of the steel-lined hallway. Listening intently for a sound, Satine could hear nothing but her own shallow breathing.

The lift ascended behind her, whisking out of sight with a tremble.

She wondered if she had gotten off too early or late, for she could not detect at all where she was. She had assumed, perhaps naively, that the servants would be busy and in full force even though the lobby hadn't been.

The odd sense of confidence that had taken her this far began to flounder in the possibility of becoming lost. A nagging part of her wanted to go back and return to the room. At least it was safe there. Yet she found herself quite unwilling to retreat just yet. After all, she was in the capital, in the Senate building no less. It was possibly the securest place to be in the entire galaxy.

 _You thought you were safe on Mandalore, too,_ a small voice chirped stubbornly, but she flicked its concerns away.

Taking a shaking breath, she gave a brisk, bracing nod and stepped down the hall. Her shadow danced along beside her as she walked, undulating in the shabby light. Completely unsure of where to go, she wandered aimlessly, always making sure to pick out small landmarks in the scarce furnishings so she would not get lost.

Finally, after a half hour of meandering, she thought she discerned voices and hoped it was a sign of friendly life. Peering cautiously around a corner, she detected a trio of silhouettes. One was surely a droid, for its metallic skin glimmered faintly in the dimness and it stood too unnaturally straight. The other two, Satine couldn't be sure, for they spoke softly and were hunched together into one blob of incoherent shadow.

Then, the party broke apart and took off one after the other down another expanse. Not wanting to lose her chance of finding a way out of this place, Satine bolted from her hiding place and trailed them. She ran on her toes and held her breath as she jogged noiselessly.

The mystery group zigzagged expertly through the maze-like hallways. Satine began to pass locked, strangely marked doorways.

With each step she began to seriously doubt herself. There was now little hope of finding her intended destination, let alone a way back. After another long bout of scrambling, the three figures halted and stood in front of one of the mysterious doors. Biting her lip, Satine decided to cut her losses and reveal herself. Maybe one of these people could help her find her way back to the lift. Yet, something made her hesitate. What if they weren't who she thought they were? What if they were angry that she was down here?

Like a silent clock, the window of opportunity seeped by. At last, she convinced herself that this was her only chance. She had to take it.

Swallowing her ridiculous fear, her dry mouth parted, and she took a cautious step into the open.

"H-hello," she called out with trembling lips. "Could you—?"

All three faces snapped in her direction. One of the figures quickly hid something behind his back.

"Who's there?!" one of them snarled.

Satine gulped. Her body was becoming numb. In a terrified daze, she stepped forward, and held a hand up in greeting.

"Hello," she repeated pathetically. "I think I may be lost. Could you tell me—?"

"Get lost!" a man with massive, buggy eyes and greasy, spider-leg hair hissed in a thick accent. "Employees only!"

Along with the rude, belligerent one, there was the droid she had seen, as well as a spindly, grasshopper-like humanoid. He had been leaning over, but now stood straight, stretching toward the ceiling. A blaster hung on its belt, although it didn't look like it needed any extra help protecting itself.

"Oh, uh, ok," she conceded, trying to keep calm. "It's just that, I have no idea where I am. If you could point me in the right direction I would be most…"

Her plea faded as the group approached her threateningly.

"…grateful," she finished as the bug-eyed leader towered over her.

"Grateful, eh?" he growled, and his voice came out in a waspish hiss. "Alright, we'll show ya where to go. Won't we?"

His tone couldn't have been more foreboding. The droid took off, toward the door. The grasshopper creature took its place. Its skin was a pale, dry green, like dying grass. It had two pairs of unreadable, glassy eyes stacked symmetrically on either side of its face. Its mouth was a set of pincers—they clicked in anticipation.

"Ah, actually, I think I might just—"

"C'mon," the slimy and bee-like man cooed, putting his two-fingered claw on her arm. "We'll help ya out."

He began pulling her down toward where the droid stood prodding the door.

"N-no!" Satine yelped, digging her heels into the carpet. "No! _Let me go_!"

She pulled away, but the giant, insect being lurched forward and wrapped its long, wiry arms around her. She felt its sharp scales prick against her. Despite its gangly appearance, it was incredibly strong.

"Shh, come easy now…"

"What's going on here?"

All three of them stopped suddenly, a tangle of limbs. Satine was let loose. She gasped and stumbled backward, her head spinning.

"Aw, nothin'," her attacker replied nonchalantly. "We was jus' tryin' to help this girl out. She's sick."

In the back of her mind, Satine heard Maul begin to laugh, jeering. A strong hand wrapped around her arm.

"Satine? Are you alright?"

Obi-wan's bearded face wavered in her sight.

"Y-yes," she choked softly. "Can we go?"

With paling face, she held a cold hand to her clammy forehead. Her thoughts were a jumbled kaleidoscope.

"I'll take it from here, boys," Obi-wan told the alien group smoothly. "Thank you so much for your help."

The man only mumbled a disappointed grunt and turned away. His lumbering companion followed suit, but it whirred an angry buzz.

With a plastic grin, Kenobi led Satine from the hall. His pace was quick, but he kept a tight grip on her. He did not speak.

As they walked, Satine's head began to clear and, as it did, the fright of what could have happened punched her in the gut. Her scalp tingled and her stomach twisted.

She peeked at Obi-wan timidly, not knowing what he thought; worried that he would disappear the minute she was taken care of. From behind, she detected his mounting intensity. His shoulders were hunched, rigid, and his grasp never loosened. Satine did not even try to pull her arm away.

Finally, they stopped. The lift lay still and ready at the end of the familiar hallway. The sight of it made Satine almost collapse in relief.

Then, Obi-wan turned to face her, and any respite vanished.

He was livid.

Nostrils flared, jaw clenched, the veins on his exposed neck jutted out like throbbing worms. His usually clear sapphire irises were furiously inky. They almost became lost in the now obvious bruises around his eyes. Satine wondered if he had slept at all since their last meeting, but it was difficult to conjure compassion when it seemed he was ready to start breathing fire.

With an odd sense of dread, she waited for his explosion. It came quickly.

" _What. Were. You. Thinking_?" he hissed between scornful lips, squeezing her elbow.

But Satine was dumbstruck.

"I…ah…" she trailed pathetically, all words forgotten.

His blazing eyes searched hers.

"We're leaving," he snapped.

Tightening his hold, he began to marching again.

"W-wait!" she stuttered, still dazed by his sudden hostility. "Wait, Obi-wan! Stop!"

With considerable effort, she wrenched her arm out of his grip and stepped backwards. He pivoted around with dangerous grace while Satine crossed her arms protectively.

"Why are you acting like this?" she asked gently, finding her voice. "Why are you so angry?"

Strangely enough, he laughed. It sounded more like a hacking cough. For a second, he closed his eyes as if trying to stop himself from doing something rash. His hand fell to his side and became a quivering fist.

"What do you think I thought this morning when I went up to your room and found that you had gone? Hm?"

"But I didn't—"

"Then, I discover from some droid that you had, in fact, just decided to go _gallivanting_ around the Senate! Then, I find you…" he took a hulking breath, his eyes glazing over with rage. "…with...those... _things..._ " his face twisted in disgust. "They could have killed you! What were you thinking? Why, of all the places to go, did you come _down here_?! Do you have a death wish?"

"Obi-wan. Listen. I'm fin—"

"No, you're not!" he exclaimed and pointed at her shoulder, sneering.

Bewildered, Satine examined herself. There was a rip in her sleeve. A splotch of red seeped from it.

"Oh," she whispered, poking it gently.

Pain flowered from the spot.

Scoffing, Obi put a hand into a pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. Motioning for her to hold out her arm, he tied the piece of mangled cloth around the wound. She immediately complied and a flicker of veiled exasperation crossed his features as he held her steady.

For a moment, they said nothing as he worked. He still appeared as if he was waist-high in garbage and guts; his countenance was a hodgepodge of sickened fury. He radiated danger, murder. His fingers fumbled, his concentration broken, yet Satine knew better than to prod him now. It would have been akin to poking a raging Rancor in the eye.

"What if I hadn't been here?" he suddenly wondered in a tight voice. "You could be…They could…"

His words hung in the air. Satine watched Obi-wan tie and then re-tie the knot on her makeshift bandage. His fingers shook now.

"But they didn't," she whispered.

His eyes flicked up warningly—a flash of blue lightning.

"They could have, _would_ have."

Groaning in frustration, he loosed the bandage and started over. Satine put a steadying hand on his and squeezed it.

"Obi, it's OK," she soothed.

"No it's not," he snapped, determined to stay angry. "There are _rules_ now, Satine. You can't just take off whenever you want. I won't always be there to look out for you."

She slipped her hand away from his and he continued trying to wrap her arm.

"What do you mean?" she pondered, unsettled by his premonition.

He had always been there, even when he was lightyears away. Satine had always known he would be there for her if she asked. It had been an unspoken, yet unbreakable pact between them. It was why they were both alive today.

Obi-wan's jawbone churned as he mulled over what to say. In the silence, he managed to tie the bandage, but he didn't move his hand. It rested protectively on her arm, applying pressure.

"The war…" he finally said in a sigh.

Satine's heart dropped.

"Oh, I see _._ "

"It's not what you think," he clarified hastily, brow furrowed.

"Then what?" Satine prodded.

His eyes jerked up to her face again. There was a mysterious unwillingness in them.

"Do you think the war is going to last longer than expected?" she tried again.

Obi-wan exhaled heavily.

"Perhaps," he answered vaguely. "It's already gone on too long for my tastes. But that's not the problem. It's why the war started in the first place. There are many questions, many mysteries left to decipher. They will take time to solve, even after the fighting has stopped. The Force…"

He paused and studied Satine for a moment, wondering how much to divulge.

"Yes?" she encouraged.

"It's Maul. What he did…" Obi began, and the more the words tumbled out, the harder it became for him to control himself. "It broke ancient laws. No force-wielder that I know of has ever been able to do what he did…with… _you_."

He almost choked on the last few words. They felt bitter and vile as they spewed from his mouth. The nauseated look returned in full force back to his face.

"You mean reading my mind?" she questioned tentatively. "But…but surely it's not as rare as you say! Jedi sense things, don't they? Perform…mind tricks? I've _seen_ you do it!"

Obi-wan's hand tightened on her. Her shoulder barked in protest.

"It's different," he tried to explain. "To influence or sense the thoughts of someone is… _unstable_ at best. The mind is unpredictable and constantly shifting in and out of focus. There's only a small window of opportunity, and it depends greatly on the will of the person..."

"So you're saying I'm weak?" Satine quipped, brow raised.

"No, no! Of course not!" Obi-wan placated hurriedly. "I couldn't read your thoughts even if I wanted to! You are _not_ a weak-willed person, Satine. That's why I can't figure out how Maul…"

He could barely stand to say it.

"Got in?" Satine suggested helpfully, to which Obi-wan nodded, albeit with a grim face.

"But what does that have to do with the Force?" she continued.

Obi-wan sighed once more, giving in.

"Maul's actions have thrown things further out of balance. The war was the first blow and now the Sith have worsened it. The darkness is growing stronger."

Obi-wan swallowed thickly and the two of them stared at each other significantly. The future, which had never seemed so bad, now appeared bleak and foreboding. Listening to Obi-wan prediction, Satine could almost feel the fabric of the world begin to loosen and tear.

"That is why it is so important that you stay under the radar and safe," he continued, his eyes hardened and resolute. "For better or worse, you are connected to this, but my future is more...uncertain."

The thought of more days spent alone and in the dark was abhorrent to her, but a new fear for Obi-wan was prickling like a swarm of angry hornets in her chest. She would do anything to keep him safe. Even if that meant staying shut up in a tower all day.

Nevertheless, Satine couldn't help but feel a bit paranoid, as if around every corner lay another horrible threat.

"Obi-wan?" she asked nervously. "You don't think _he_ …that he's…" her voice trailed off significantly.

Immediately, the Jedi understood.

"In your mind right now?" he finished for her, softening. "No, I don't think so. When I…when he… _left_ …he was weak. He wouldn't— _shouldn't_ be able to access your thoughts from whatever hole he's hiding in now, _if_ he is alive."

A bit of color came back to her cheeks.

"I hope he's dead."

The words rushed out before she could stop them, and even Obi-wan winced in surprise.

All her life she had been a pacifist, but she couldn't extend the same compassion for Maul. Every time she thought about him, her flesh crawled and her blood froze. She still bore the scars of his malice, still couldn't sleep through the night.

It was anathema to her that he still breathed while her sister and people lay dead in unmarked graves under a pile of ruin that had been Mandalore. Now it appeared that Maul had affected far more than Satine had originally thought, which was saying something.

Obi-wan's hand fell from her arm. Instantly, she missed its presence.

"We best get out of here," he announced tiredly. "They'll be expecting us soon."

Satine's pulse jump-started.

"Who?"

"The Council," Obi-wan explained, a grimace pulling at his lips. "They're ready to speak with you again."


	38. Risk

On the way back to the temple, Satine stayed close to Obi-wan, who, in turn, was determined not to have a repeat of last week's debacle. Because of this, the second trip went much faster. Obi-wan's presence, friendly or not, acted like a talisman, keeping Maul's illusion away.

The two spoke little in the cab ride, and with each minute, Obi-wan's mask of indifference was shoved back on. Satine tried not to mind, there wasn't anything she could do about it. She certainly couldn't make him chose between his Jedi mantle and their friendship.

So, she merely stared out the window and, every now and then, stole peeks at Obi-wan. He did the same. Once, their eyes met awkwardly and both looked hastily away. Each blushed, but said nothing. Moments later, they were clambering out the door of the cab and starting the journey toward the Council chambers, walking together.

Before she knew it, she was standing before the threatening doorway at the top of the Jedi Temple, expecting to go through the ringer like before. Obi-wan remained dutifully by her side and, this time, went in with her. A swell of relief about this eased much of the nervousness.

Even more surprising was the fact that only Masters Yoda and Windu sat waiting for her arrival. Perhaps this wouldn't be so terrible, after all.

Obi-wan, on the other hand, was not so optimistic. Immediately upon entering, he sensed there was an unspoken time-bomb ticking in the room, one that would soon be set off by the stoic Masters. He saw in their eyes a hint of heaviness that had not been present earlier. In their feelings, there was a whiff of reluctance.

A steady drum of trepidation started beating in Obi-wan's chest.

"I hope you are doing well today, Duchess," Windu began honorably. "It has been too long."

"Indeed, Master Windu," she said meekly with a small bow of her head.

She still wore the clothes that she had dressed in earlier today. They had not had the time to stop by her rooms, but it didn't bother her to be in something comfortable. It made the whole ordeal far more casual, even though the subject matter was heavy.

"Get to the heart of the matter, we shall," Yoda cut in, his aged eyes sparkling peculiarly. "Ready, are you?"

Unsurprised by the little, green creature's intensity, Satine nodded and characteristically dug her nails into her palm, fists at her hips. Obi-wan kept his face religiously forward.

"You should know that we are still not in complete agreement," Windu warned. "Many on the Council do not hold the same…fervor for this matter."

He paused and stole a glance at Obi-wan, hinting.

"Nevertheless, we are all greatly concerned about the Sith," he continued. "And what he was able to accomplish on Mandalore in such a short amount of time. It does not bode well for the safety of the galaxy when one of its members is so easily taken over by darkness, especially in this precarious moment."

Satine waited for the judgment to come. The Master seemed to be beating around the bush, reluctant to say what they all feared. Windu's stone face cringed in distaste for the situation. He may have appeared unfeeling, but he received no pleasure from giving bad news.

"Because of this, it is in this council's opinion that we must do whatever we can to stop the Sith from gaining any more footholds," he declared, his dark eyes boring into Satine's. "We _must_ take proactive measures."

The drum in Obi-wan's torso increased its tempo. He began to see in tunnel vision. Satine did not like the sound of 'proactive' either. A drop of blood slipped down to the marble, out of her palm.

"What does that mean?" Obi-wan asked in a rush, entering the conversation.

He raised a brow at the other Jedi, his stormy eyes flicking between the two of them.

His eagerness was not lost on Yoda, who peered at Obi-wan with increasing scrutiny; however, he remained expectedly silent. Windu switched his gaze to Kenobi.

"We would like to see just how far the Sith was able to connect with the Duchess. We would like to perform a meld."

Obi-wan growled his displeasure. Satine stood oblivious, a question on her countenance.

"Absolutely _not_!" Obi-wan snarled, heat rising in his face. "She's no Jedi! She doesn't have the strength for it! It will kill her!"

Although she had no idea what he was speaking of, Satine nevertheless felt a pang of resentment. Who was he to say she wasn't strong enough? Whatever it was, it certainly couldn't have been worse than what she had already faced.

"Aware of the risks, we are," Yoda intruded.

His voice was remarkably calm—an unmovable object in a tempest.

Obi-wan kept his focus on Windu.

"So we've come to this?" he barked at the man. "Putting innocents in danger and for what? _Information_? We already _know_ what happened! We already know that the Dark Side is mobilizing. We should be out there _looking_ for the other Sith Lord! Not putting Satine through more hell!"

But Windu merely exhaled profoundly. These moments were never easy, even when his Jedi brethren were involved. In fact, it always seemed to be _more_ difficult when his colleagues became invested. Obi-wan especially.

"We have already discussed this," he stated matter-of-factly. "We don't have the manpower to go on a goose chase _and_ fight a war. And don't talk about innocent lives, Kenobi. It would put more in danger if we did what you wanted. No, we have to work with what we have, unfortunate as it appears. Plus, I don't think you give the Duchess enough credit. She has shown remarkable will—"

"She was trying to _survive_!" Obi-wan cut him off. "And she barely made it out of there as it is! What you're suggesting is—"

"Obi-wan, stop."

Satine stepped regally forward and put a calming hand on his shoulder. He did not attempt to shake it off, remaining deathly still. All three pairs of eyes fell on her.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked quietly, not taking her gaze off of the Knight.

Thunderstruck, Obi-wan's mouth parted open in disbelief. His words lodged in his throat.

"Nothing," Yoda informed lightly with a rumbling giggle.

Satine gave him a puzzled, withering stare.

"What he means," Windu explained with a tight grimace. "Is that we would like to search your mind and see if the Sith's presence is still active. All you would need to do is give us your consent to do so."

"Well that doesn't sound so bad," she said, a tad underwhelmed.

At this, Obi-wan couldn't take it anymore and strode across the room, away from the Duchess. Satine watched as he began pacing, wanting to leave but unable to.

"What they're leaving out is that they would be trying to access the connection between Maul and you," Obi-wan informed them from behind, glaring at the ground as he marched back and forth, back and forth. "A connection protected and created by the Dark Side. If Maul sensed our presence, he would terminate the link without hesitation."

"I still don't see the problem," Satine admitted. "Isn't that a good thing?"

Obi-wan's face tightened. He stopped his mad pace and stood looking somberly out the window, arms crossed, a hand lodged in his beard. The Duchess turned to the others.

"It's an imperfect science," Windu explained vaguely, to which the Knight scoffed. "There can be complications."

"It's a bit more than _imperfect_ ," Obi-wan revealed, returning to Satine's side. "And the 'complication' you're speaking of is _death_ , Master."

"That rarely happens…" Windu tried to defend.

" _And_ there's never been a _Sith_ involved," Obi-wan retorted. "If Maul thinks there's an opportunity to tie a loose end, he'll do it! You can't possibly think he'll let you read his thoughts without a fight."

"Wait, what? Read _his_ thoughts?" Satine asked, eyes wide.

"Yes! Now you see?" Obi-wan suddenly cried, enthused by her shock. "They want Maul and they want to use _you_ to get to him."

Windu's glare deepened, but he did nothing to defend himself further. Yoda's eyes flickered quickly and silently from Obi-wan to Satine and back again, attuning. The Masters' lack of response confirmed Obi-wan's accusation.

Satine stared at her shoes.

"Oh," was all she said.

The small moment of triumph experienced by Obi-wan was brought crashing down by her lack of astonishment at the revelation.

" _Oh_?" he sputtered, turning toward her. "You're not still considering this are you?"

Sheepishly, she returned his hardened gaze.

"There doesn't seem to be another way," she whispered sadly. "I can't let any more people get hurt because of me."

"Of course there's another way!" Kenobi deflected, throwing his hands in the air. "We could stop twiddling our thumbs and actually _look_ for the Sith instead of putting our hopes on a theory."

"Let us know how that works out for you," Windu said sarcastically in the background.

Obi-wan ignored him and tried another track. He was unraveling.

"Please, Satine!" he pleaded, utilizing all of his persuasive tactics. "Don't make a decision just yet. Wait a day! Just _one_ day, that's all I ask! Then, if you still want to do this, I won't stop you."

The new threat on Satine's life was melting his attempts at remaining indifferent. His mask, which was already crumbling, became a flimsy semblance, see-through and fake. It shattered and revealed his obvious attachment to his Masters, the last people he had wanted to expose it to. Anakin had warned him over and over, made him promise to try and stay away, to let Satine go, and Obi-wan had tried, he had tried furiously to dislodge himself from her.

Whenever he saw her in these last days, he never got within a foot, never looked at her for too long, never said more than he had to. He treated her like a parasite.

It had been like keeping a palm on a hot stove, it had made him despise himself, but he had done it. Every night he went to bed sick with worry for her and every morning he woke up waspish and infuriated. It felt like he was losing control rather than gaining it.

Now, however, he could not stand the pressure. Anakin's warning voice flew out of his head.

Placing his hands on her shoulders, her long, iridescent blonde hair tickled his gloved knuckles. Satine did not seem convinced by his words, but he couldn't lose her, couldn't bear to put her in any more danger, to give her any more scars.

"Satine," he begged, staring at her with wide, humbled eyes. "Don't do this."

As desperately as she wanted to believe Obi-wan now, and as fiercely as she desired to follow his lead wherever he wanted to go, she knew in her gut that he was wrong. His options would lead to nothing but frustration and obsession. Satine knew if he was let loose, Obi-wan would never stop looking for Maul. The hunt would consume him, drive him mad, she was sure.

Plus, Obi-wan had said it himself. Maul was an expert on avoiding detection—hiding in holes in the ground, under rocks, in between cracks. If he wanted to stay hidden, he would, and the possibility of finding and stopping more like Maul vanished along with him. The link that might have existed in her head could flush him out like the insect he was.

She would not allow Maul to steal Obi-wan away from her, not again.

So, going against every instinct, against every desire to appease him, Satine turned away.

"I'm sorry, Obi," she whispered, clutching his hand on her shoulder.

Then, she straightened, raised her chin, and stared at a space between Windu and Yoda.

"I'll do it."

Brokenhearted by her words, emptied, Obi-wan pulled away and walked, staggering, to the door. Satine did not turn around, but heard the panels as they swooshed and clicked, sealing her fate.


	39. Cloak

The Jedi insisted that she stay at the Temple for the night. The procedure would begin in early that next morning. A guide led her to a dark room usually used for meditation. A small cot sat unassumingly in the corner along with a plethora of cushions. There was no window or any other source of light other than one candle. Incense was burning on a small table next to the bed. The smell of it made Satine's head foggy and slow.

"I will be down the hall if you need anything, Duchess," the calm, cloaked monk told her.

Satine nodded, throat tight. As the panels closed, the room became even darker, yet Satine did not fear it. There was a peaceful presence, an awed hush that quieted her anxiety. The one candle did not help much in the way of seeing, but it did keep her from tripping over her own feet in the gloom.

With the door closed, the incense's perfume grew stronger and stronger. Soon, she was lying on her back, lids heavy and body disconnected. She inhaled and exhaled in slow, prolonged breaths, feeling the smoky air as it traveled into her lungs and out like high-tide waves.

She had not realized she had fallen asleep until she was being shaken awake.

"Duchess Satine!" a voice whispered. "Duchess Satine! Wake up!"

"Huh?" she mumbled groggily.

Coming to, she was curled like a cat in the middle of the cot. Her arms grasped a pillow tightly, and her head buzzed numbly. Unable to detect the hour without the sun's position, Satine was sure she hadn't slept more than a few minutes, but here she was, being roused.

"C'mon. They're waiting for you."

Recognizing the voice, she unwillingly wrenched her eyes open and saw Anakin standing over her.

"That's it," he encouraged. "No need to get made up or anything, we have to leave immediately. Oh, and I'm afraid you won't be able to eat until afterwards."

"Oh, ok," she said sleepily, hardly comprehending, still trying push herself up.

Her body was angry with her, but she managed to force herself into a sitting position. Hair standing on end, she rubbed her eyes and face vigorously. Everything was stiff and sore. Anakin offered her a hand. She took it and was grateful that he did most of the work as he lifted her to her wavering feet.

Gently nudging her forward, he rushed her out the door. In the regular, non-incensed air, her thoughts became more lucid. Blearily, she followed Anakin as he twisted and turned. They rode a lift and zig-zagged through more hallways. Self-consciously, she realized her hair was still a bird's nest and managed to braid it into a sloppy tail while she walked, knotting it at the end.

Anakin did not speak, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. His intensity filled the void of noise.

Satine had been disappointed not to see Obi-wan, but she supposed it was because he was still too angry. She knew she had hurt him, but it hadn't been his choice to make. If there was a chance of stopping more atrocities done at the hands of Maul and the Sith, she had to take it, right?

If she didn't, she wouldn't be able to live with herself. What else was she going to do? Sit around, useless and pathetic, in some Republic birdhouse as she waited for news on the war and whether or not her friends were dead or alive?

No. She was not a coward. She was not a leech. If something did happen today, at least it was done with good intentions, she told herself. Nonetheless, instinct fought against her better judgment. Fear was the natural response. Her heart sped up as she walked and she tasted the metallic zing of copper on her tongue.

"So, who's going to be, uh, _doing_ the procedure?" she asked, trying to focus on something besides her pulse rate. "Will Obi—Master Kenobi be there?"

Anakin cleared his throat, uncomfortable.

"Well," he said in cough. "I'm not sure. He may be."

Satine found it odd that he didn't know.

"He didn't tell yo—?" she began to inquire suspiciously.

Suddenly, the two were at an entryway, and Satine's question faded back into a weighty silence. She peered at the panels as if they led to some other world, a gate to the unknown realms.

Anakin jabbed a button on the side of the doorway and it snapped dutifully open. At the sound, Satine flinched and closely tailed Anakin into the room. It was an expanse about the size of the Council chambers above. The floor was a marbled black, sterile and clean. Again, there were no windows, and the walls were a light, earthy grey. The whole area reminded her of a waiting room, but instead of patients and nurses, there were Jedi and the distinct mood of menace in the air.

In the middle of the space there was only an ominous, cushioned stretcher, hooked to a variety of machines.

It drew her eye as she strode toward it, but then she noted who was standing beside it. Unsurprisingly, Yoda was there as well as Windu and then, standing at the head of the stretcher, with his eyes closed in concentration was:

"Obi-wan?" Satine whispered under her breath.

The sound of her voice reverberated in the stillness.

Obi-wan wore his dark brown robe, the hood was up but it didn't seep past his brow. His arms were crossed in the sleeves resolutely. He didn't notice her presence until she stood right next to the table alongside Anakin. Even so, when the Knight opened his shockingly blue eyes, they were far-off and unaware of her existence. He appeared blind.

The other Masters stood a few feet away. They gave her pleased, subtle nods as she approached, but she hardly noticed them.

"Obi-wan?" she questioned again.

He made no response, but only stood like a statue, a hollow body.

"What's happening?" she asked, frightened. "Why is he like that?"

"He's preparing himself," Windu clarified through a clenched jaw. "This will take all of his concentration and strength."

The obvious hit her like a truck. Obi-wan was the one. He would be melded with her today.

"Wait, you're not serious?!" she exclaimed. "He could get hurt!"

"Risk yourself for him, you can, but not him for you, hm?" Yoda perceived rightly.

"He's also more _attuned_ to your mind than we are," Windu added keenly, although he did not seem happy about it. "It will make the meld easier."

Satine still hesitated.

"What happens if this doesn't go well?" she asked, pointing at the table and then at the vacant Obi-wan. "What happens to him?"

"Think of that, you mustn't," Yoda cautioned frustratingly.

He was even smaller and more fragile-looking standing. His green, shrunken claws held his gnarled, wooden cane shakily as he spoke up at Satine. His white hair stood on end like a second set of ears on the sides of his elliptic-shaped head. She had never been one to judge on first appearance, but even she found it difficult to put her trust in this tiny, decrepit being.

"Don't worry, Duchess," Anakin popped in confidently. "Everything'll be fine. Obi-wan knows what he's doing. He's the best at this kind of thing."

Distraught, Satine felt backed against a corner. Obi-wan was always doing things like this, risking himself needlessly.

Nonetheless, exasperated with, and scared for, him as she may be, she also knew she could not back down now. That chance had passed.

"Time, it is," Yoda proclaimed, emphasizing that point. "Ready, Obi-wan is."

With a despairing look, Satine gazed at the Knight, hoping that he would awaken in time to reconsider.

He did not even blink.

"Alright," she conceded sadly, biting her lip. "What now?"

"Lie down," Windu instructed.

With trembling hands, Satine boosted herself onto the stretcher. She clung to the metal rails on each side of it while Anakin secured her. Leather bands were fastened on her ankles, wrists, and across her chest. The feel of them unsettled her, reminded her too much of the slave, Sithian collar she had worn.

Above her, Obi-wan stood still, seeing nothing, saying nothing. From below, she studied every part of him from the individual golden-brown hairs that sprouted from his chin to the slight crevice sitting between his brows and then to the subtle scars that stood out on the sides of his face, running into his scalp, covered by the hood.

A variety of sticky, circular pads attached to wires were stuck to her head and neck. As soon as they contacted her skin, the monitors behind her thrummed to life, beeping every few seconds.

She gulped and the beeping amplified.

"Try and stay calm," Windu chided gently.

She nodded and squeezed her eyes shut. It didn't help much. The machines still whinnied.

Then, somewhere above, she heard whispering. The voice was Windu's. Unable to help herself, Satine peeked. The Master was muttering in the Knight's ear. Obi-wan nodded once blankly. Windu stepped away. He and Yoda walked serenely out the door, as if strolling in a garden, but Satine was sure they would be near, probably just outside.

As they left, the room darkened. Incense began to burn somewhere—Satine recognized its effect. It did its work quickly as it blurred her thoughts and numbed her body. It was far more intense than before. It was almost suffocating in its potency. She winced at its invasive nature and tried to do as Windu instructed. Once more, she half-closed her eyes and forced herself to remain still and limp.

Weighty seconds passed as she felt herself drift. Then, something then nagged at her to look back up. The feeling was relentless, intent upon having her eyes open. Dazed, perplexed, she relented and saw Obi-wan staring directly at her, inches from her face. His eyes were no longer muddied but exceptionally clear. The blue was that of an engrossing pool, the shade of the clearest summertime sky. Light though they were, she knew that if she stepped into them, she would drown in their depths.

The force he was exerting was arcane, dogged. It felt as though she was a twig, a pebble, in an apocalyptic hurricane. His invisible power pierced through her body, into her brain, through her very soul. It was if he was trying to fuse the two of them together, trying to become her and she, him.

At first, her instinct was to resist. She wanted to be one thing, one person, but her defenses were paltry. He was too powerful, his presence too overwhelming. With a mangled exhale, he broke into her. She lost herself in the turbulent ocean of his eyes, sinking into obscurity.

Her will had been stronger than Obi-wan had anticipated but, at last, she relented and allowed him entrance into the deepest parts of her being. Gaining access, his essence searched hers.

Minds were interesting places—mixes of spiritual and physical and mysteries not yet known. Yet, Obi-wan knew what he was looking for: the manifestation of darkness—one inorganic and hostile, a tumor of malice.

He tried to become as vague and unassuming as possible. Thoughts, emotions, and the fluttering of life itself whisked by him like flowers caught in a breeze. It was imperative that he did not go too deep, or he would not be able to find his way out. If he became lost, he and Satine would be forever unable to discern where one began and the other ended, entangled forever.

Although he had no body, he could feel himself moving, floating in the Force. He let it guide him. Delving, diving, a faint prickle jarred him forward. He recognized it. Like an oil spill, tainting everything in oozing, slimy black, Obi-wan sensed the presence of the Dark Side. He followed its trail carefully, cautiously.

The path was reciprocal. Maul had imparted a piece of himself here. If Obi-wan wasn't vigilant, he could tip the Sith off, who would then severe the connection, wreaking havoc within Satine as he did.

Obvious and disgusting, the teeming, throbbing shadow led Obi-wan further and further. He proceeded meticulously, completely concentrated on his objective. He passed temptation after temptation—memories, feelings, deepest desires. In many of them, he blandly recognized his own face.

Finally, the trail stopped, amassing in one gigantic mountain of blight. Sickened, he hovered nearer, searching for its heart. If this place had been transported into the physical realm, he was sure it would be freezing, a corrupted glacier. The dark's tendrils reached out, sensing, tasting. Deftly, he kept out of its searching grasp.

His Masters had been right—Maul had certainly been here, still existed somewhere. He may have been weakened, but his connection to the Dark Side was still just as strong if not stronger. Bloated sentinels, the Sith's encampment of shadow writhed and squirmed, contaminating all it touched.

In his mind's eye, Obi-wan could feel his face contort in anger. Maul's presence was an infection, corrupting Satine slowly, cancerously. For a moment, his concentration wavered. He had not expected it to be so bad, but it was worse than he imagined.

The darkness reacted. The spindly coils sifted in his direction, feeding on his anger.

Stealing himself, he released his justified fury, letting it fade into nothingness. As he did, he receded away, feinting. Moments later, the shadows converged on where his presence had been, intent on devouring; however, they found nothing and regressed back into the blob.

After that, Obi-wan bided his time, waiting for the dark to calm.

It was detestable having to spend another moment around such a sordid entity, but he kept sharp, watching and waiting. As the darkness seeped around itself like a mound of maggots, Obi-wan observed a glimmer within its depths. Cautiously, he probed further, trying to sense what it was. Inching closer, he could feel a pounding, a thrum of life. It thumped discordantly, a broken clock ticking, coming from the center of the malignant blob.

It was what he was waiting for: the heart. It had only been visible for a second, but he sensed its presence permeating. The problem became how to destroy it. The shadows conglomerated around it faithfully, keeping it protected. He would have to separate it from its guard.

Noticing how they crept closer whenever his emotions got the better of him, their relentless gluttony gave him an idea. He had to bait them with a delicacy they couldn't refuse.

Thinking quickly, he melded into one of Satine's neighboring memories. As he did so, his form became more concrete. It was a faint outline of himself, a wavering ghost. Popping in, he stepped onto a horribly familiar scene.

Standing in a small room, he saw as Maul, with a grin, snatched a knife from a Death Watch soldier. Satine sat, terrified, on the floor, against a wall. Panicked, she tried to run, but Maul's crony held her down.

" _The Jedi may have your heart_ ," the Sith bragged wickedly. _"But I have your body."_

Horrified, Obi-wan watched helplessly as Maul grabbed her face in one hand and deformed it with the other. Stumbling backward, Obi-wan covered his ears as Satine screamed. Blood splattered the walls, gushed onto the floor. Satine's feet kicked out but then went abnormally still, Maul controlling her.

In turn, her shrieks suddenly cut off, but the blood still flowed copiously.

"NO!" Obi-wan bellowed, unable to stand it, unable to look away.

No one reacted to him. Maul continued to carve away like a butcher. The soldier's hands remained locked on Satine even though she was still and silent, powerless to speak or resist. Obi-wan could almost feel the knife slashing into her skin, could taste the saltiness of blood and sweat and tears.

Then, with a wisp of smoke, the memory vanished before his eyes—Satine had lost consciousness during the torture.

Stunned, Obi-wan's plan worked too perfectly.

Although he had seen this memory before, it had been from an outsider's perspective. Observing it with Satine's terror, fusing with her feelings, it added another vile layer. Her fear and pain became his. He could feel himself losing focus, slipping over the edge, blurring.

The black morass rushed toward him, eager to feast off of his now unfettered and copious emotions. This time, he wasn't quick enough and a vine of darkness snaked around him. He felt it drain his concentration, muddy his resolve further.

He tried to gather himself, but he felt himself crumbling. A tidal wave of death coursed toward him. He froze. The shimmering heart of darkness jumped in and out of clarity. He couldn't concentrate, couldn't breathe.

Back in the room, beads of sweat ran down his temple and a drop of blood sped from his eye. His hands, which gripped the metal sides of the stretcher, were shaking and white-knuckled. The monitors chorused, whined, beeped furiously.

Satine's body convulsed, jumped like a fish out of water. All became chaos. Windu, Yoda, and Anakin rushed in.

"Get him out of there!" Anakin yelled, charging forward.

However, when he got within a few feet, he was thrown backward savagely. He skidded backward and hit the wall with a crack.

There was an impenetrable barrier between him and Obi-wan.

"We cannot interfere," Windu stated with strained eyes, helping Anakin up.

"There must be something!" Anakin protested, flustered.

The young Jedi put his hand up, trying to shatter the invisible wall with his own power.

"Only frustration down that path, there is," Yoda cautioned, clicking the ground with his cane. "Obi-wan's fight, this is."

Anakin groaned in sorrow at the sight of his former Master and the Duchess. More and more drops of blood sputtered down Obi-wan's face, a torrent of red tears, leaving burgundy trails on his bronzed skin. Satine's back was arched, her toes were curled grotesquely and her hands were sickeningly straightened, popping out of their sockets. She looked like a marionette whose strings were tangled, causing her body to contort.

Then, she began to scream an unholy shriek. It was as if she was releasing her spirit from its skeletal prison. Hidden in the noise was Obi-wan's throaty grunt of pain.

"C'mon," Anakin hissed under his breath, his eyes focused completely Obi-wan. "Get out. Get out. Get out."

Satine thrashed against the straps holding her down. The gurney shuddered. For a moment, her body parted with it. She floated, held down only by the restraints as she writhed an inch in the air, still wailing horribly. Obi-wan's bloodstained eyes followed her as she moved, his head on a string. His mouth began to part. It widened, widened, until it was fully stretched.

It was something out of nightmare, but Anakin was unable to look away.

Suddenly, Obi-wan loosed a cry of his own and Satine's airborne form slammed back onto the stretcher with such force that the metal legs of it snapped. The table collapsed, but Obi-wan somehow managed to keep Satine from being thrown like a sack. With burning eyes, he waved a mindless hand. Of their own volition, the leather straps snapped in two, and Satine levitated lethally still as the gurney crashed beneath her. She went quiet.

Her unloosed hair gravitated upward, trembling. Her limbs dangled limply as Obi-wan bent over her. Engrossed, his gloved hands gripped each side of her face as he peered deeply into it. His mouth was in a tight line now, a grimace. His robes fluttered in an impossible breeze. Splotches of blood plopped onto the Duchess's unassuming forehead.

The minutes oozed by. Satine did not seem to be breathing and Obi-wan continued bleeding, but the other Jedi could not get past the force-field protecting the pair.

"What's happening?" Anakin questioned in a snarl.

Yoda said nothing. His eyes were closed as he gripped his cane with youthful fervor. Windu merely gave Anakin a somber look.

"What?" the boy asked again. " _What_?!"

"I don't know," Windu admitted angrily. _"_ I can't _see_. Kenobi is determined to keep us out."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Windu repeated in a whisper.

Just then, Anakin heard a shuddering breath. As he whisked his head around, he saw Obi-wan blink, felt the barrier ebb. It was over.

"Done, it is," Yoda declared, but his smile was sad.

Anakin didn't hear him as he bounded forward.

"Obi-wan!" he exclaimed, a giddy, relieved grin on his face. "Talk about—"

"Wait," Windu ordered, managing to snatch Anakin by the arm.

Obi-wan had indeed returned, but he was the only one. Satine still floated, still and silent, in the air.

Her lips were blue and cracked, her eyes were closed. Her chest did not rise and fall, and not a single finger or toe twitched.

Death had come for her at last.


	40. Knight

_Moments earlier_

The Dark Side's forces fell upon him.

Obi-wan fought viciously with the endless army of darkness. Every time he managed to evade or conquer one of the snake-like tendrils, another smothered him, shredded him. Enveloped, the shadow squeezed him in its merciless coils.

The atmosphere thundered and shook, an earthquake—Satine could not stand the collision of the two sides of the Force within her mind.

Under the weight of the ocean of black, Obi-wan felt himself being corrupted, dissolving—the connection between his physical and immaterial self cracked. He would die here, he was sure. His body would become a shell, uninhabited while his spirit, essence, remained lost in the Force.

The heart of darkness stood out in the open now, confident that the Jedi would not escape its minions. Suffocated, Obi-wan was just a sliver, a splinter in the paw of a monster. Then, there was the familiar sound of laughter.

The merciless dark stopped writhing. Obi-wan was held in its grasp, chained down. Maul's presence entered and the blight shivered in anticipation, awaiting the Sith's orders.

"Well, well, well," Maul's disembodied voice crooned. "Look what we have here."

With new fervor, Obi-wan pressed against his captors, all to no avail. Consternation only fed the beasts holding him.

"Did you really think you could defeat me _here_ , little Jedi?" Maul bragged, cackling. "Your arrogance will cost you dearly."

Strangled, Obi-wan tried to find an opening, a hole, a crack in the impenetrable shadow.

"But what to do, what to do?" the Sith continued, giddy. "As much as I enjoy seeing you struggle, I've learned my lesson, Kenobi. And I think it's best now if we made a _clean break_."

And with that, the horrible black began to swarm. It stampeded through Satine's mind, shattering everything it could. Obi-wan watched helplessly as it tore the Duchess apart. Whole chunks of memory were obliterated.

"You should have just stayed down, Obi-wan!" Maul shrieked happily, madly. "Like the animal you are! Like your Master! _I told you I would have my vengeance_! NOW DIE!"

Hooting, howling, slobbering laughter echoed all around Obi-wan, inescapable. Blind, deaf, and dissolving, Obi-wan wilted away. His connection to the physical realm was all but eradicated.

But, then, a small voice spoke softly to him, a calm whisper amidst the madness.

" _Don't give in, Obi,"_ it said, a woman's voice. " _The Force is with you._ _Fight, my love! Fight!"_

A brilliant light exploded, chasing the darkness away. The black quagmire's wisps squealed in pain as they were annihilated. Maul roared in fury. He sent a torrent of snapping, snarling black toward the luminous explosion of Light. A battle raged all around.

Obi-wan felt the hold on him loosening in the confusion. He was freed. In the bedlam, he saw a sparkle of bright obsidian. The heart was still exposed, twitching, clicking, caught dead to rights.

Summoning all of his strength, Obi-wan gave a cry of power and aimed. Hurling an invisible harpoon, he fired. The shot hit the heart straight through, dead center. He heard Maul shriek in rage.

Then, peacefully, airily, the light receded in victory. The dark stopped its crazed onslaught. It shuddered once and faded into nothing. Maul's presence had vanished, sensing his destruction.

All of his will spent, Obi-wan collapsed. He was being pulled away, wrenched. He did not notice the havoc he and Maul had wrecked upon Satine. He did not see the brokenness he left behind. Her mind was a ground-zero.

The battle had been won, but the damage was done.

The last thing he heard was the sound of the woman's voice weeping, creating rippled echoes.

" _I will always love you_ ," she said to him. _"Goodbye, my dear Obi-wan."_

Then, he was gone.

* * *

Obi-wan blinked a few more times as he came back to himself. Vaguely, he was aware that he was bleeding. His body felt as if it had been run over by a train several times over. His shoulders rose and fell with quaking breaths. He wheezed, coughed, staggered. Then, he became conscious of Satine, levitating in front of him. His hands still clutched her pallid face tightly.

Horrified, he released her from his power.

She fell, slumping. He caught her, but he was weak and his knees hit the ground as cradled her body. Head lolling, her chin hit his chest. He yanked back his hood. Without a care as to who was watching, Obi-wan scrambled to hold her limp, icy hand in his. He tipped her chin up with his finger and searched her closed eyes frantically.

"Satine!" he hissed desperately, reality spinning. "Satine! Wake up! Satine, it's time to _wake up_!"

She did not respond. He felt for a pulse. There was nothing. He put an ear to her chest, but no resounding thump greeted him. He searched the Force.

"NO!" he moaned, shaking his head. "NO! NO! NO! NO!"

Yet no matter how much he tried to wake her, she would not respond to his calls. In his arms, she was already becoming stiff and cold. She was dead.

New sobs weaved white trails on his bloody face, piercing through the red—salty and horrible.

"I had him!" he wept. "I had him! _Satine_ … don't leave me!"

Curling, he held her close to himself, rocking her. Guttural, beastly sounds emitted from the Knight—they ripped him from the inside out. Each breath was another stab to his chest, a knife slashing him to ribbons. He repeated her name over and over, hoping it would keep her real and alive, but her eyes remained firmly closed, her face was slackened and plastic.

Fat, hot tears rained continuously upon her head. With his thumb, he softly wiped the blood, his blood, from her black-striped cheeks and forehead. No one approached, allowing the Knight his grief. Already, Satine was becoming idealized in his head—her starry hair shimmered, her brilliant sapphire eyes pierced his mind. They had a sad smile in them. Her face, unscarred and perfect, floated and beckoned him.

For hours, he sat there, holding her, refusing to let go, refusing to detach.

His tears soon ran out. He began stroking her hair, untangling it with his fingers. In death, she was even more beautiful. The pain that had been etched upon her features was gone. Years disappeared from her and, more clearly than ever before, he saw the girl he had fallen in love with all those years ago. For there was no denying it now, he had fallen in love—head over heels, body and soul, with every fiber of his being.

 _And now she's gone. My fault. My fault._

Shattered, he leaned forward and placed one kiss on her limp, pale hand, hoping it would awaken her. She did not stir.

Then, urgently, he placed two more under her sleeping eyes, realizing he would never see their familiar vivacity again. Finally, lastly, he put his quivering lips to her scarred forehead. He inhaled her lilac scent, preserving it in his mind forever.

At one point, Anakin and Windu came over and peeled him away from her. With the gentleness of new parent, he placed her wilted figure softly upon the cold, stained floor. He placed her hands over her chest, one over the other like an entombed queen. Her silvery hair spread around her like a halo, she looked positively luminous, a supernova.

He would have remained staring at her for the rest of his life, but his friends tugged at him, pulled him away. Too weak and devastated to care, he allowed himself to be led somewhere, anywhere.

The last attachment holding him to the physical realms was severed.

Later, he would understand that Satine's death was unavoidable. She had eluded the Force's will long enough, and it would not be robbed a third time. It had been Maul's destiny, one way or another, to kill the Duchess, just as it was Obi-wan's destiny to protect and guide the one who would bring balance to the Force.

Years passed and the wounds of his heart scabbed over, painful but whole—Satine, Anakin, his brothers and friends that had died or fallen to darkness, they all had a scar and a vigil within him. He alone carried the weight of their souls—a walking shrine. Satine did not speak to him again through the Force, although he had tried many times to reach her, to return her love, to thank her for saving him that dreadful day.

In a desolate desert, there was not a night that went by that he didn't think about the enchanting and fierce Duchess of Mandalore. And when death took him on a starship as an old man at the hand of his once best friend, Obi-wan Kenobi's last thoughts were of her—his one and only love, his soulmate.

Once, Luke Skywalker, the son of the fallen Anakin, asked the aged Obi-wan a question. They had sat been sitting quietly in the boy's speeder, travelling to Mos Eisley—a decrepit, villainous port.

"Ben?" Luke pondered into the silence.

The boy had been uncharacteristically quiet for most of the ride. The death of his aunt and uncle had taken much of his original spirit. He couldn't get the image of their burned, unrecognizable bodies out of his head. It was tormenting him more than he let on, but he could not take the void of noise any longer.

"Yes, Luke?" Obi-wan answered cautiously, sensing the lad's grief.

"Do you have a family?"

Embarrassed, flustered by the young one's question, Obi-wan frowned, the crevices on his worn face deepening. It had been years since someone had spoken to him so frankly.

"No," Obi-wan responded shortly, not wanting to discuss it further.

But Luke would not relent.

"Oh, c'mon, Ben," he whined. "You didn't just come out of nowhere! You must have had _someone_."

Obi-wan sighed gravelly and put a hand to his chin, twirling his gnarled fingers in the wispy, white hair.

"It was a long time ago," he confessed mysteriously, thinking of his Jedi brethren.

"Oh."

The sand swooshed like stubborn waves as the speeder hovered over it. The breeze was hot in the pair's faces as they careened across the vast desert of Tatooine. As they traveled, Luke's thoughts wandered to the Princess. She was so beautiful, but also familiar—he was sure he knew her from somewhere. He wondered if he had a chance with her. After all, he was just some orphaned farm boy while she was royalty.

A sudden, inexplicable thought popped into Luke's head.

"Uh, Ben?" he tried again, sheepishly.

"Hm?" Obi-wan grunted curmudgeonly, crossing his arms.

Luke gulped, afraid to ask but too inquisitive for his own good.

"I was just thinkin'," he began, his voice cracking.

He coughed and Obi-wan restrained a chuckle. Luke so reminded the Jedi of his father when he had been young. Both had the same incurable, inappropriate curiosity.

"Yes?" Obi-wan prodded with a smirk after the boy fell back into embarrassed silence.

"Well," Luke stuttered, running a hand through his sandy hair, Anakin's hair. "Have you…do you—? What I'm trying to say is…"

This time Obi-wan did laugh, grandfatherly.

"Spit it out, boy!"

"Haveyoueverbeeninlove?!" Luke rushed out, blushing furiously.

Obi-wan's grin disappeared. He sat a bit overwhelmed, stunned. He had not expected that. Luke took it to mean that he had gone too far and he gripped the controls tightly, keeping his light eyes firmly on the horizon. A few awkward moments passed while Obi-wan pondered.

"Once," the Knight admitted in a whisper. "In a past life."

Luke nodded with wide eyes but stopped asking questions. It was clear that his old companion was tapped out. Obi-wan threw his ancient hood antisocially over his head and leaned back, pretending to sleep.

As he sat, avoiding any more inquiries, Obi-wan allowed his mind to wander.

The dream of Satine and him raising a family, living a peaceful life together, had remained just that—a reverie and nothing more. It had never been anything else, he realized sadly. Nonetheless, he did not regret his time with her. She had been a bright star amidst a lifetime of misery. He still blamed himself for her death, just as he blamed himself for Qui-Gon's and all the others he had failed along the road.

With a peek, he stole a glance at Luke.

He looked like his father in some respects. Both had the same coloring with blue eyes and dirty-blonde hair, but Luke had a kindness on his features that could have only come from Padme. He had her rosy cheeks and smile. Sometimes, when the boy was frustrated or angry, Obi-wan could see more of Anakin. Indeed, Obi-wan had worried that the death of his aunt and uncle would push Luke in the direction of the Dark Side, just as it had his father. Yet, here Luke was, obviously saddened but resolute to carry on.

Furrowing his brow, Obi-wan made a silent vow. He would use the last of his remaining strength protecting this last hope, this boy. He would not fail again, even if it meant his own destruction.

So, he began tucking his memories back into the creaky chest of his head. He stashed Satine in a special place within his heart, pausing just before he shut her memory away. Her young, alluring face floated to the forefront of his mind.

Putting a finger to his withered lips, Obi-wan vaguely wondered, during those lonely nights on Tatooine, in the speeder now with Luke, what might have been.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you all so much for this journey. It was a pleasure to write this story (and actually finish it!). Your patience throughout this process was always appreciated, and I hope that you are satisfied or, at least, stirred emotionally in some way. May the Force be with you! ;)**

 **If you want more Obi-tine, check out my new story: Lineage.**


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